Hunters and Hunted
by Bamboofoxfire Productions
Summary: He was contracted to murder. She was contracted to guard. Same target, opposite purposes. Grudges between predators and prey don't die so easily.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** An RP between myself and someone on Tumblr. Be warned, we're both gore-freaks =w= There is much murder, mutilation, and death in here~

I wrote the parts for Faulklin. Hige wrote the parts for Blackthorne and Arjorn.

* * *

 **Hunters and Hunted  
A Skyrim Fanfiction  
Original RP with higekihigure  
**

* * *

The rockier areas of the Rift were exceedingly easy to traverse when compared to those of the steeper Reach. He had no concern for bears or trolls. Both could be avoided, and if they couldn't, he could handle himself well enough anyway.

He hadn't had proper work in some time now. After the Brotherhood's rebuild, they didn't have the manpower to pull off exceptional contracts against anyone important or worth going after, and most of the time it was in some remote location like a cave or ruin where he could merely steamroll through. That had its own kind of satisfaction, but there was something to be said for missions with a more subtle touch as well.

He didn't stop to ponder the irony of that thought coming from _him_ of all people. Whether he was direct or sneaky about it, he was still a predator, a taker of life, and by the end, blood would be spilled. If he had any say, it would be a lot of it.

The night sky was half-mottled in clouds, and the only sound was the occasional breeze through birch canopies and crickets. Below the rise glimmered a lake, and somewhere at its center were some islets where his target was waiting for him. Closer still was an old fort on the lakefront, abandoned by military and taken over by vagabonds.

Faulklin froze when he heard voices, ones that were cocky, self-assured, and hostile. He quickly deduced that they weren't directed at him though, spotting two moving figures in the darkness, hunting a wild animal.

Well, at least they were going to make this easy for him.

He strung his bow and nocked a black arrow, aligning it with his single blue eye. It only took him a few seconds to focus before letting it fly, piercing through fur clothing that didn't suffice as proper armor and sent the victim of it staggering, probably as much in surprise as pain. By the time they let out their first shout, he was already firing another one into the man's chest.

Predictably, the second came running to find him, but he lodged a third arrow through their face and they reeled in agony. He used that as his chance to change positioning, slinking behind several rocks and around behind them both, slitting the first man's throat from behind and catching the second through the abdomen with the same blade as they turned around.

There were only three other low-skill bandits guarding Feldar's Tooth, making for an easy sweep. Too small of a number to properly hold a fort like this, which meant…

The information was correct, and the rest were just across the water in Goldenglow Estate.

He went to the precipice of the closest watchtower, unafraid of falling, and surveyed the three connected islands and the manor built atop it. Best to get an idea of the situation first, since there were too many ways for his target to potentially slip away under the confusion. He didn't think he'd have too much trouble with mercenary rabble, but his mark took first priority. He could deal with the rest second.

* * *

Blackthorne watched the Altmer massage the bridge of his nose as she sipped at her drink; he had been doing that for the past two hours. He had stated he was going to sleep, but had only laid his head down for a few moments before throwing the covers off the bed with a frustrated groan and sitting up to grumble to himself.

"What's the matter?" she finally asked when he got up to pace the room.

"I thought I hired professionals," he groaned. "Not drunkards and-... and children!"

Blackthorne felt her face scrunch up and get warm at his comment. "I thought we already discussed this," she flared, swinging her feet off the table. "I. Am _not. A child_! " She slammed her mug down for affect and was satisfied to hear wood crack with the force.

The Altmer flinched.

The house grew silent a moment, the first silence the Altmer had heard in days, then a laugh broke it and the loud ruckus below continued.

"Ye think I came to be the leader of a band 'a mercenaries because of money?" She scoffed. "Maybe ye think me mam just handed me them as a gift one day. Is that it?"

The Altmer stumbled for words a moment, found himself unable to form a solid argument, and instead unlocked the door to his room and flung it open. "What is this, then?" he demanded as a mercenary who had been sleeping against the door flopped inside. He smelled heavily of mead.

A mercenary who had been lazily eating bread and tilting his chair back and fourth at a table across from the door, was watching them with mild amusement, and another head could be seen poking around the corner beyond that.

"I allow my men to drink in shifts," Blackthorne stated. "This way they won't get bored waitin' for some petty thief to break in." She dragged the unconscious drunk into the room and propped him against the wall, a feat for someone her size. "Only a few of them are ever drunk at one time. Or would ye prefer having fifty-some-odd bored barbarians on yer lands?"

The Altmer seemed to be weighing this option as she added "They get nasty urges when they're bored." She chuckled to herself lightly, remembering something. "This one time, I caught Asgeld with his pants down with a chicken-"

"I've heard enough!" the disgusted Altmer interrupted, waving his hands in front of him as if to shoo away what he'd just heard. "As long as you can keep my grounds safe, do what you will."

Blackthorne grinned and nodded. "You should get some sleep," she stated, leading, or in this case, shoving him to his bed. "Got a lot of work to do tomorrow."

Once the man had been shown to his bed, Blackthorne made her brief rounds of the house. In total she had around 50 men on the grounds, half of which were outside patrolling the area. She kept them on a tight schedule of shifts, and made sure they kept to them, especially at night.

Most of the upstairs was quiet; mercenaries sipping at watered down drinks, reading a book, or sleeping on the beds and floors of the 'guest room'. Things were as they should be. Downstairs was another place entirely. It was boisterous and loud, though dying down now that the few who had been allowed hard drink were finding sleep in corners or on the upturned tables and cabinets. She woke the ones who were asleep before their shift and, with their help, moved the drunks to the pantries so they would not be in the way should anything actually happen, then made her way to the cellar.

She hated the cellar; it was cold, damp and smelled of molding hay. Her men had expressed the same displeasure, and she had allowed the few stationed down here mild drink; not anything hard, just something to give them a buzz and keep them warm. She found them just beyond the heavy, iron-studded doors laughing as one of them danced about with a hollowed out taxidermy moose head. It was covered in cobwebs and missing its eyes and she couldn't think for the life of her where they had managed to find it, but didn't care so long as the were awake and alert.

After sharing a hearty laugh with the four, she returned to her post, now with cheese and bread in hand, and readied herself for a long night.

* * *

Somewhere around fifteen or twenty guards, Faulklin would guess… and that was only the ones patrolling outside. He considered that maybe most of their force was outside the building itself, maybe thinking that more patrolling outside would keep the inside safer, or possibly to make their numbers look bigger than they were.

Still, he wasn't going to overlook the chance that there could be just as many inside. This was one of Maven Blackbriar's businesses after all. The woman was always too careful.

It was going to make a proper approach difficult, but for him, not impossible. He wasn't the best bladesman in a direct fight, a decent archer, but moving about unseen was his truest and most reliable strength.

In front of the old fort was a small dock and a single boat. At the very least, he could use that to get across without needing to swim, and without taking the single bridge straight in that would be heavily guarded.

Reaching the boat, he untied it from the dock and pushed off, crouching in the bottom with large black cloak covering him entirely and let the moving water do the rest of the work in carrying him to the islands.

He heard some voices above and didn't move at all, listening.

"Looks like some idiot forgot to tie the boat properly."

"Probably Vitcha again… damn boy needs to pay attention more. Told him a million times _this is how you tie a proper rope_. Does he ever listen though?"

"Should we leave it for now?"

"No. If it floats too far away, we'll never get it back. You keep doing the rounds as usual. I'll go take care of it. At least I'll have something to do now, and someone to chew out when I've finished."

Faulklin listened to each step that drew nearer, dropping onto the stones and mud of the shore, until he could hear the person right above him.

"Huh… who left this here? I hope they expect to get it back wet, leaving it in a boat like that." Faulklin felt a hand against his back, grabbing hold of his cloak, and finally sprung. The man was too surprised to make a sound, and by the time he might have thought of it, the boy had already lodged his sword through his throat and severed his spine.

The body fell against him and slumped into the boat, streaking his side in blood. He ignored it, stepping out and pushing the boat back towards the dock, where the body wouldn't likely be noticed. That only left sneaking around the parameter to the back door, using the outcroppings of the island's risen edge as cover and scaling up the rocks.

There was only one guard at the back. He dispatched them with arrows and then a rush of his blade before they could make too much noise, dumping the newest corpse down a nearby hole that served as the house's sewer.

Sneaking around the outside was easy. The inside was a little more difficult.

As soon as he entered, there was a man rounding the corner. Faulklin was lucky the guy wasn't paying a lot of attention and managed to get the jump on him. The noise, however subtle, didn't go entirely unnoticed. There had been a door to Faulklin's right as soon as he entered, closed but not sound-proof.

Another mercenary emerged, muttering something to the effect of, "What are you doing, falling into walls? Go easy on the drink," before freezing as he saw Faulklin and his dead fellow slumped down the wall. The man drew a sword, but Faulklin closed the distance a split-second faster, cutting him through the lungs. It didn't come without taking a jab through his own lower side, but his wounds would heal. The mercenary's would not.

Faulklin left him choking on blood as he stepped into the room the man had just emerged from, barely avoiding the swing of a two-handed axe that imbedded itself in the door frame. He took his blade to the back of the mercenary's leg and brought him more to the brunette's own level, slicing his throat.

No others came to confront him, but the room wasn't unoccupied. The rest were simply passed out drunk, unaware to their surroundings. He killed them too, not caring if it would be seen by some as cowardly. The more he killed in their sleep, the less of a problem he'd have later.

He didn't bother with more rooms than he had to, walking down the hall and poking his head around the corners before continuing on, dispatching lazy or unaware or drunkenly guards as he went with relative ease. Mostly it was simply that they weren't really expecting anyone to come traipsing through, but that was merely to his advantage.

He managed to dodge around a dining room filled with a greater number of mercenaries who were more awake and reach some stairs going to the second floor. The second floor was even easier since the ones up there were almost entirely asleep, confident that the ones downstairs would handle any confrontation that appeared.

The floor was spotted in pools of blood from slain men and women who had been caught asleep on the floor or dozing at a table, leaking between floorboards and from the ceiling to the first floor below, by the time he reached his target, who was already up and armed with a knife. All the same, the Altmer was cowering in a corner.

"You, how did you get in here?! I know I didn't hire you with the rest… guard! _Guards!_ Blackthorn! Someone, defend me, kill this fool!" he shrieked. Faulklin was the exact opposite, glaring coldly as he advanced and poised his blade. "S-stay away from me! I'm warning you! I'm connected to the Black-Briars! They'll hear of this! You'll pay if you do anything to m-!"

He didn't get the chance to finish, an ebony sword cutting his words short before he fell to the floor, bleeding out. Now the only task left to complete was report back to Nazir that it was done.

* * *

Blackthorne had spent a good hour or three talking with Bjarn at the table across from the Altmer's room. She likely would have talked to him all night, but he was new to night shifts and she allowed him to end his shift early, which left her to sit in the silence alone, and increasingly restless.

With no stimulus and little else to do, she had decided to raid the pantry in the room just outside and to the right of her post. If she was going to guard this place, she was going to take full advantage of its food stores as well. She had just decided to take a whole bag of apples back to the table when she heard commotion below the stairs.

"Blood!" a voice shouted below. "There's blood coming from the ceiling!"

She had a split second to register that as actual panic before hearing the Altmer scream for her from the other room. Her heart sped up, a mix of panic and excitement, as she dropped the bag in favor of her twin axes and raced out of the room to her charge.

She didn't slow down upon entering the room, barely registered the body laying on the floor as she leapt at the figure wrapped in black.

* * *

Faulklin surveyed his handiwork for a moment more as he heard the sounds of panic reaching through the floorboards from below. Seemed that someone sober enough to notice the carnage finally did.

He gingerly stepped around the body and to a table where a pouch of coins sat. No use leaving it be. Maybe it'd even keep Nazir from bothering him with insipid contracts not worth his time. The Redguard didn't really care where the coin came from, right?

He heard the running footfalls that announced the first mercenary to arrive to confront him, his blade already drawn, so he was prepared to block when they sprung at him.

What surprised him most was their height. He was used to always being looked down upon, quite literally, with his lacking stature. This was one case where he couldn't say the same. She was at least the same height as him… no, maybe she was shorter. A child? Or…

He didn't ponder it long. What did it matter? A child or short adult, it made no difference to him. He blocked the first axe that swung towards her, but noticed she had a second one, and quickly kicked out at her stomach to push her back so he could regroup and deal with both blades accordingly, before more mercenaries could show up to crowd the room.

"Too late," he muttered, not taking his eyes off her but his words referencing the dead owner of the estate whom she and her fellows were hired to guard.

* * *

Blackthorne staggered from the kick, but didn't falter in her pose or attack as she rushed at the assassin once more, going for his left leg with one axe and his mid-section or chest with the other.

Sure, her charge being dead was a damper, but this ass was mistaken if he thought she was going to just let him go.

Behind them heavy steps were clomping up the stairs.

* * *

Faulklin leapt back away from her swings, the axes missing him by a hairs breadth, but missing him all the same. Offensively, he was sub-par. Dodging, however, was something he excelled at.

Maybe if his circumstances were as normal as anyone else's, he might let her cut him down, and he'd probably laugh at her for doing so, likely to her great confusion. He didn't so much fancy the thought of being crippled, or the torture that would ensue when her and her cronies would try and fail to kill him - even more to their confusion - and instead focused on the fight seriously.

While he was back-stepping, his single eye took quick snapshots of the room, taking stock of what he had to work with, seeing possibilities with each glance.

His back ran against dresser shelves in the far corner as he dodged another swing. His free hand groped for a useful object, and found the neck of a wine bottle. Not anyone's first choice in weaponry, but it'd do. He swung it around and down to smash it over her head. Even if she blocked it with her arms or weapons, it would be enough to slow her down for at least a few seconds.

The door wasn't really a free option, with other mercenaries quickly closing the distance to it, nor were the too-small four panel windows, but there was another that the girl probably hadn't recognized.

He dashed past her and up the shelving of a cupboard in the shadow of the door. It teetered and fell over, but not before he managed to push off and hoist himself partially up onto one of the many wood beams crisscrossing the ceiling, directly above the door, right as the rest of the mercenaries unknowingly burst in directly below him and kept going, showering the girl with questions ranging from "Where are they?!" to "What happened?", completely oblivious that the slayer of their comrades and employer was poised just above and behind with a sword poised in one hand and a charging fireball in the other.

* * *

Blackthorne _tched_ in annoyanceas the brunette 'escaped' into the rafters. "There's nowhere to run, you -" her insult was cut short as the room flooded with mercenaries eager for a fight and full of questions.

"Where are the vermin?" several asked boisterously, effectively overriding her own words.

"He's above you, you idiots! Clear he way!" she shouted, but it went unheard by those further back and those still demanding answers, who crowded a good portion of the room and door way now.

She began to shout a louder command, but it trailed off as she watched the fireball light up in the assassin's hands, instead turning into a frantic demand for everyone to get out and get to cover. She backed up the small step behind her, towards the bed, and near a darkened corner between a dresser and tall stand; out of his line of sight.

A few nearest her had followed, though it was doubtful they _all_ fit out of line of sight, while he rest of the room erupted into chaos.

* * *

Faulklin was counting on the bullheaded battle-hunger that most mercenary-band types possessed, letting them file in underneath like a herd of sheep to slaughter. Most men and mer, as he saw it, were little brighter.

A few started to notice him, but by then, he already had a fireball ready and shot it down, an inferno exploding against a few of them and the surroundings. There was screaming and the smell of burnt flesh, as well as scattering. Someone was actually smart enough to dive for a flagon full of water, but by then he already had another fireball ready to explode against a few more.

One person that he didn't hit lodged an arrow in his shoulder, and the pain that made him jolt offset his balance so that he fell. Another arrow came aimed his way, but with the explosion of flames and the many running, screaming bandits, the wood floorboards in the center of the room gave way, splintering and collapsing to the first floor, him along with it.

He gasped the smoky air for a few moments, though it didn't cause him any grievance, and snapped the arrow shaft close to the wound, staggering to his feet and taking off towards the door.

Let them deal with the remaining chaos. His job was already done, and while he was stubborn, he wasn't dumb. He'd take out any that pursued, and leave the rest for another time.

* * *

Blackthorne paced in her spot near the bed a moment before deciding there was little point in wasting time finding an alternative route downstairs when the most direct one was in front of her. She sheathed her axes, covered her nose with part of her fur-lined vest and hopped into the smoking wreckage.

She landed with a loud crunch, followed by a load groan that she couldn't be sure was the wood or not, and nearly fell into a nasty mix of trophy antlers and splintered wood as she settled on more stable ground.

The fur did little to keep out the wretched stench and her green eyes watered from the smoke that stung them. Around her men and women were groaning, screaming, even crying, and she found herself at a cross-road of choice. As much as she wanted to chase the assassin, as much as she felt she _needed_ to, her men came first; for good men were hard to come by, and none too cheap to keep near.

She decided Arjorn could deal with the assassin. He was never far from the small red-head and was sure to be near enough to spot the stranger.

* * *

Arjorn had been enjoying himself in the chicken coops when the chaos had begun. He was quickly at attention and even quicker to notice the shadow pulling away from smoke. He didn't need to hear the whistle to know that _this_ did _not belong._

With a snarl he barreled at the figure; a 5′7 mass of muscle, metal, fur, claws and bloody feathers that one rarely - if ever - saw, and it was all focused on tearing the strange shadow apart.

* * *

Faulklin's first choice of direction upon exiting the building the same way he'd come in was to go right. Going left led him back to Feldar's Tooth, but there was water between him and it. On the other side - the direction he went - was a dock with a Nordic knar and a smaller boat tethered to the poles. He could use the smaller boat to cross to land and escape.

Less expectedly (though somehow he thought he should have predicted it. This was the Rift after all) was the huge mass of a fully grown bear that seemed to come out of nowhere. And clearly, this was no random, wild bear, considering it was covered in a big, clanking mass of armor, fit just for it.

He didn't even pause to swear, spinning on his heel and dashing towards the woodwork of a platform where supplies were kept outside, throwing himself between a gap in the wood frame between thick barrels. The entire structure rattled and tilted from the charging beast that struck out with heavily-clawed paws, barely missing.

The first space with a diagonal-beam wouldn't allow it to fit, but the animal immediately backed off and swung around to where there was a wider gap. Faulklin scrambled to his feet and leapt onto another diagonal-beam and dug his fingers into the lip of wood at the top of the platform, edging up the diagonal surface until he could pull himself up on top of it.

He saw the briefest movement through wood boards of the bear, but mostly he heard it huffing and puffing, pacing heavily below and back into the open. His new perch wasn't going to last more than a minute or two with _that_ chasing him.

He panted as he glanced around for his best escape route, and even as he did so, the creature rose onto its paws and slammed them against the wood, which audibly snapped and splintered. Faulklin was mentally counting each slam, of which the sheer force almost knocked him off of the platform even before it broke.

 _Two… three… four… five…_

That was the point that the legs gave out and teetered towards the water and docks. Maybe he could make the jump from the corner to the smaller boat… it was a gamble, but worst case scenario, he'd miss and hit the water. He could swim, if poorly, just not as fast as a bear, although a bear in heavy armor was more likely to sink in deep water.

He wasn't getting any more choice, hopping off the falling platform to the rail of the wood pathway and launching forward.

He _barely_ cleared the gap, hitting the edge corner of the boat and falling forward hard. He hissed and reeled, the arrow in his shoulder and pain in his side from the earlier mercenary blade, but forced himself up and cut the tether, pushing the boat from the dock.

* * *

Arjorn continued the chase with little pause, going so far as to dare a jump into the small boat, nearly sending the small shadow catapulting off the side of it. He clawed his way into the boat leaving deep, jagged gashes in the creaking wood until he finally found balance in the center.

The bear huffed loudly, its warm, foul breath spilling over the small brunette for a moment before it was swept away in the chill breeze. Water was threatening to overtake the vessel as it strained to stay afloat under the bears sheer weight, it pooled at the pairs feet, nipping them with cold pins. Arjorn swatted at the small figure, long dagger-like claws seeking to eviscerate its target.

* * *

Faulklin could hardly believe that the bear actually _leapt after him_. The beast must have been either stubborn or stupid. Either way, Faulklin had never much liked bears to begin with, right up there somewhere with frost trolls and slaughterfish.

Maybe it'd be best to abandon ship and simply swim after all…

He stood unsteadily, back heavily against the headpiece of the boat with the bear looking to close the distance, though at least it was no steadier than he was.

It swiped towards him and he ducked to the side of it, barely avoiding its claws, or at least avoiding them catching flesh. It did, however, catch the folds of his cloak, and as soon as it did it yanked him towards it, and there was no way he was besting a bear in matters of physical strength.

He toppled forward, swearing profusely, and no sooner had he hit the half-sunk hull of the boat then powerful jaws crunched over his shoulder and he screamed.

The bear moved to yank its head, but paused when the boat pitched and instead only bit down again, readjusting the grasp that its fangs had. Faulklin used the moment to swivel around, even though the agony in his upper torso only grew, and jammed his sword into the pit under one of the bear's front legs.

It was the beast's turn to roar in pain, jolting to the side and causing the boat to capsize both of them into the water with a grand splash. The bear still didn't release straight away, and he twisted the sword further, clouding the water with dark blood. Finally the bear released him and he likewise withdrew his blade, boy and bear trying to reach the surface with mixed results.

The bear at least turned its sights back to Goldenglow, at first unable to even breach the surface, but it finally appeared on the shore. Faulklin, glad to be rid of it, hooked an arm between the wood planks that made up the seats of the overturned boat, simply to stay afloat, and headed for the shore near Riften docks.

When he managed to get close enough that he could reach the bottom with his feet, he hauled himself onto land and simply collapsed for a few minutes, burning his wounds shut so they wouldn't continue to bleed out.

He glanced up for a moment as he stood on shaky legs, unsteady from what blood he did lose and the cold of the northern waters. He spied the large shape of the bear on the shore, barely visible at such a distance, and other figures he assumed to be the remaining mercenaries.

Didn't matter. This job was done, and he didn't fancy trying to fight them now with the wounds he'd accumulated. Weary, he turned and trudged towards Riften stables, where Shadowmere was waiting to take him back to the sanctuary.

* * *

Blackthorne was doing her best to assemble order in between her trips in and out of the burning home, dragging survivors to safety and casting quick healing spells all while barking orders to the ones that had gathered.

"Fetch water, don't let the fire spread!"

"Help me get the living from the rubble!"

"Don't just stand there! Move! Move!"

She was in the midst of hefting smoldering boards from a body when a moan resounded from the dock:

 _Pain. Hurt. Need you. Hurt. Need you. Need you. Need you._

Blackthorne threw the board to the side and took off at a sprint toward the bear.

Arjorn was sopping wet, water running from his fur in rivulets as he slogged towards the familiar elf. A relieved but pained snort escaped him as she hugged at his head and hurried to press the release latches on his armor. The armor fell from him in a series of clunks and, as if all energy had suddenly left him, he fell with a huff onto the grass.

 _Rest now. Tired. Hurt. Relieved. Hurt._

Blackthorne scratched behind his ear, reassuring him he was safe as she pulled a red vial from her side pouch. He snorted contentment and she smiled slightly despite the panic in her chest.

She did a quick assessment of his body, lifting heavy paws to find the culprit with relative ease. She winced at the deep, dark red of the cut and hoped upon all hopes it wasn't too deep to heal.

She uncapped the small vial and poured the liquid into his mouth, which he swallowed with some disdain, and she watched as the injury slowly seamed shut into a tender, frail scar. It would likely be a few days until it solidified into a full scar, but he would live. He'd better.

A solid heat filled her chest as she recalled the lithe assassin, replacing her anxiety with anger as she walked back up the hill with renewed vim. He would pay for this; for the death of the Altmer, her men, and for the injury given to Arjorn. She would see to it that he paid everything he owed due.

"We leave in the morning!" she announced. "Once the fire's out we make for Riften. We-"

"Er, Miss," interrupted a Breton with a wince. "What about Maven, what are we going to tell her?"

Blackthorne had forgotten about the original owner of the Estate, and the fire inside of her flickered to an ember as she thought on this. They couldn't just leave without saying anything, she would receive word of the incident by morning, no doubt, and the blame would fall directly upon them. With Maven's influence in both the Thieves guild _and_ The Dark Brotherhood, as well as her overall political power, they would fall under an attack they could not win against, loathe as Blackthorne was to admit this. She couldn't just send a messenger, telling her they had _somehow_ failed. No, that would not satisfy the woman, or Blackthorne, _at all._

She crossed her arms, cupping her chin with one hand in thought a moment before regaining some of her spark.

"I'll tell her meself as soon as we get to Riften," she decided. Turning to the Breton, she said "Take a skif back to the Tooth. Tell them we won't be returning as soon as we'd planned and to bolster the defenses. I can't be sure when we will return." The Breton nodded understanding. "Take Asgeir, Ferald, and Gryf with you."

The Breton nodded once more, "Yes'sir."


	2. Chapter 2

**Hunters and Hunted  
A Skyrim Fanfiction  
Original RP with higekihigure  
**

* * *

Faulklin was staggering by the time he actually made it to the stables, even though it was hardly any distance from the water, but every step felt like a mountainous task.

He glanced some of the guards at the gate, who took their while to notice him, and one that finally seemed to recognize his distress and started towards him. He didn't care. He stumbled into Shadowmere, grasping the daedric mare's saddle and simply leaning on her for support for a moment.

He didn't see it immediately, but the other guard barred his comrade from drawing any nearer. "You see that mark on the saddle blanket? The Black Hand… Dark Brotherhood. You should just leave it be."

"That kid?" the other questioned, surprised.

"No mistaking it. Best to stay uninvolved."

Faulklin could read between the lines easily enough. They were probably hoping he'd drop dead on his own. He chuckled softly against Shadowmere's shoulder. If only he _could_ drop dead. Such luxuries were not his to have.

Struggling to get his foot in the stirrup, he pulled himself up onto her back, both of his shoulders sharply protesting, but he managed to reach the saddle and nudge her sides, slumping over her strong neck.

"Back to the Sanctuary," he rasped, trusting her to get him that far without needing much instruction. Shadowmere snorted and galloped down the road from Riften, heading due north between watchtowers stationed on the road.

Down the way, the main road passed through a fort overrun by bandits. He cut to the right of the road through the woods, avoiding it and Shor's Stone further down and slowing to a steady trot through the woodlands.

They passed by a pond and cage traps for animals, and were careful to avoid a small group of traveling bandits that Faulklin might have taken on easily enough any other time, but they kept their pace slow and skirted around and downhill, finding a worn dirt path. At one point they passed a wolf den to the left of the path, but the wild dogs merely snapped their teeth in warning and left him and his horse alone as they kept traveling.

Just as morning broke, when they briefly stopped at a pond to drink, the sky began to drizzle. The only thing to do for now was to put up with it, Faulklin sulking to himself as he idly munched on blue mountain flowers, which weren't quite so effective as they would be brewed into a potion, but it was better than nothing. His fires could heal some of the damage and close some wounds, but there were limits to even that.

After maybe an hour of rest, he re-mounted and continued on. Eventually the winding pathway rejoined the main road where the Rift turned into Eastmarch. Down the way was a raging bonfire taller than his horse, marking a Giant's camp, and just downhill of that were hot springs, emanating a scent of steam and sulfur.

The smell was distasteful, but the hot water alluring, and Faulklin stopped them there at the water's edge to take care of his wounds and get rid of what blood and grit the rain hadn't washed away. The arrowhead and part of the shaft was still lodged in his shoulder, and he spent a good deal of time cutting the flesh around it to remove the projectile, muffling the sounds of pain behind gritted teeth until he had it properly removed and burned it shut.

The soil was spotted in some of his blood by the time he was done, leaving the arrow end on the bank, and he felt light-headed once more, but he was unconcerned. All he wanted to do at this point was to soak away the aches and take some rest before braving the damn far north where the Dawnstar sanctuary was located.

For a while he just lay in the shallows and listened to the periodic boom of thunder in the clouds, letting himself drift towards being half-asleep. If any sort of danger reared its head, Shadowmere would alert him and leap to fight whatever it was, so he was fine with letting his guard down for a while.

* * *

"You _better_ have a good _excuse_ for waking me this early, _child,_ " Maven warned as she allowed Blackthorne into the mansion. If looks could kill, she would have turned the Bosmer into ash.

Blackthorne felt her face go red, but restrained herself as the raven-haired Nord led her to a table just beyond the entrance. Brynjolf was seated there already and sat quietly judging the red-head as Maven sat at the end to sip at a drink.

"I take it ya already know about the Estate," Blackthorne surmised.

"Byrnjolf told me what he'd seen, but go on, let's hear _your end of the story,_ " she drawled with mock interest and patience.

"We-," Blackthorne looked away, " _I_ was unable to protect GoldenGlow Estate, but..." She looked Maven in the eyes, something she doubted many did. "I will make it right."

" _Oh really?"_

 _"_ Me and me men are going to hunt the bastard down and drag him back here. In pieces if we must!" She brought down her ax for emphasis, much to Maven's annoyance.

Byrnjolf looked unimpressed. "You couldn't defend against a single assassin. Just admit you don't have what it takes, kid."

Blackthorne had grabbed the nearest mug and chucked it at the thief before she had even noticed she was angry. "I'll kick yer ass!" she shouted, pointing

Byrnjolf caught the metal container with a single hand and set it back on the table, a smug grin on his face as he swung his feet from the table and drew his sword. "Show me you got what it takes."

Blackthorne kicked her chair into a corner and readied her axes, a smile coming to her face.

A fight was just what she needed to cool off.

* * *

At some point he opened his single eye to notice small black shapes watching him, perched on the rocks and in the trees. Some were bold enough to sit on Shadowmere's saddle, though the horse looked ready to make her opinion of them known with how her ears were drawn back.

While he was watching, new birds flew in, calling out a warning that Faulklin recognized.

 _Danger! Hunters! Tracking!_

Faulklin blinked tiredly. Hunters? Tracking what? He knew all of the crows in Skyrim though, and he was known to all of them. They were good informants.

 _Hunters! Tracking! Tracking!_

Tracking him? He thought back. Would those bandits really come after him? Maven might send them. The Black-briars detested being crossed. Maybe it was a different group entirely. Either way, he didn't fancy being in a fight right now. No choice but to keep going, he supposed.

Reluctantly, he gathered himself up and pulled his shirt back on and replaced his armor to where it was meant to be, drawing his cloak around his thin frame and continuing on with Shadowmere towards Windhelm.

* * *

The sun hadn't even breached the horizon when the band of brigands awoke and began saddling their horses. They hadn't slept long in the Riften inn, and a few of them grumbled displeasure as they muddled about in the cold drizzle. Blackthorne, however, was a bundle of orders and energy as she paced from one group to the other, ensuring they had not forgotten anything or had hitched their rides properly in their grogginess.

"What happened to your face?" asked one of the females between yawns, referring to the bruise on the small leader's cheek.

"Nothin' that should concern you," Blackthorne brushed off, "Just a workin' out of an agreement."

The woman shrugged, not too terribly nosey when it came to others' business. If it was anything of importance, Blackthorne would have informed them.

Within minutes, the crew was saddled and ready to move out. Blackthorne had already received directions of the Assassin - or Gobshite, as the red-head had taken to calling the figure, as well as several other colorful terms - from two guards who had been stationed outside. Normally such information would not have been cheap, but upon stating it was official business of Maven Blackbriar, they had divulged it with little quarrel, along with a warning informing her he was of the Dark Brotherhood.

' _Whatever Maven's payin' you aint worth it.' t_ hey had said. ' _I don't know what the Brotherhood did, but it's best to let it play itself out. Maven can easily destroy it from the inside without help from some brigands.'_

It was true that Maven could easily deal with this nuisance with little to no effort on her part, but it was false that she had paid Blackthorne anything. Part of the agreement was this was of her own doing, to 'amend' for her blunder, and that nothing she did would come back onto the 'Briars. At worst Blackthorne would fail to retrieve the thorn in their sides, at best, she would succeed and they would receive some satisfaction in his capture.

Worst case scenario for Blackthorne, however, would mean taking the fall for the assassin, so as not to besmirch the 'Briar name. Someone as powerful as the 'Briars hiring a 'kid' and a group of common thugs to defend her business? Unlikely. Something that would likely end in Maven 'cutting her losses' in a rather literal way. A risk that would have worried most, but Blackthorne was positive she would return with the bastard in tow and all would be right.

She turned towards Arjorn, clad in newly feather-enchanted armor, with a concerned look. The armor had never been a burden to the bear before, but she had taken the opportunity while in town to get it enchanted anyway, both because of the lack of swimming ability, and because of his wound that left him sore and limping. It hadn't been cheap, but as far as she was concerned it was a needed investment; she didn't wish him to carry more than he had to. She was torn between leaving him at base to recover, and taking him with her. Surely he would slow them. She had decided he would stay behind when the Breton she had sent back to base came rushing up the road to them.

The man was out of breath and soaking wet. "They're dead!" he huffed out, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. "All of them. Dead. It was just us four." He looked his leader in the eyes, fear showing in his own as he continued to pant.

Blackthorne was floored. Sure, she hadn't left all that many to defend the base, but for all anyone else knew it was still a heavily defended fort of Brigands. The dogs out front were often all anyone needed to be dissuaded from even crossing in front of the place.

"How!?" she demanded, grabbing the man by the front of his armor. "What about the dogs?"

"T-they were full of arrows and cuts," he stammered. "The dogs were cowering in corners. They wouldn't even come out when I called them."

Blackthorne released the man with a _tch._ It had to have been _him_. She gnawed on her thumbnail in thought. She would have to bolster the defenses quickly.

"You," she indicated to a group of people, "return to the Tooth and defend it until we return." It would be a bother having only eleven men, but it would be worse if they lost their home to looters and other brigands. "Arjorn will return with you."

Arjorn slapped the ground in protest.

 _I stay. Stay with companion. Go with. Find shadow. Go with. Hunt._

Blackthorne huffed her disapproval at him: _Go home. Defend. Safe. You hurt. Stay safe._

 _Not hurt. Go with. Hunt. Hunt shadow._ The bear insisted. _Protect you. Stay. Keep safe you._ He added with a raised lip, showing his anxiety of leaving her side.

Her men watched with curiosity as the two 'argued'. They had grown used to the elfs' frequent communing with beasts, especially the bear some months ago, and when the elf returned to chewing on her nail they finally asked; "Is the bear staying or coming with us?"

"Comin' with," she sighed, waving the group she had indicated towards the base. The Breton mounted with the lead and they took off at a gallop towards home. To Arjorn she added with a few tongue clicks. _You stubborn._ _You follow._

She patted Arjorns neck as she scaled the spikes lining the armor on his legs and shoulder to settle on the patch of leather on his back that made up the saddle.

 _Stubborn yes. Safe. Keep safe. Love you. Need you. Stay. Hunt._

Blackthorne smiled at the bear, then to her men. "Let's go, ya, Bollocks," and without waiting for instruction, Arjorn took off at a brisk pace north.

It didn't take Blackthorne long to realize she wouldn't have gotten far in her tracking without Arjorn. His keen sense of smell made the task much faster than scouring for clues alone, a task that would have been near impossible in the rain, and she was doubly relieved he had insisted on coming. He seemed anxious still, however, huffing out strange things like: _Bad. Bad smell. Danger. Don't like. Danger._

She reassured him with pats and clicks: _Safe. Together. Unstoppable. Stubborn. Safe._

He lowered his lip, relaxing some, but still noticeably on edge, his fur on end and muscles tight.

They skirted around the guard towers, not wanting to slow their pace, and knowing their own reputations, didn't need the hassle of being mistaken as raiders. They rejoined the road, but soon branched off it again as the scent wafted off the path and into the woods. Blackthorne felt they were making good time. Arjorn was tracking the scents easily , and it wouldn't be long until she paid the shite back what was owed, though she pondered the stability of her crew currently; they were tired, wet, cold, bored, and not all of them had been on board with this to begin with, having been informed before leaving the inn what _exactly_ they were following. They encountered a solution for that not far into the woods, however, much to Blackthorne's mixed annoyance and delight.

Their group had attracted the attention of the bandit camp to the left, though Blackthorne had tried to avoid it as the 'shadow' likely had. Swords clashed, arrows flew, blood was spilled, not much of it their own. Injuries were few and minor, something that would heal into a nice scar to brag about in the future. They did a quick sweep for valuables, then returned to their hunt, their energy renewed and overflowing, as they laughed and talked amongst each other. Blackthorne joined them in their vocal celebrations, trusting Arjorn to keep to the scent.

Their pace had reduced to a walk, and so emerged in their own conversations failed to notice they had dodged another bandit camp.

Their trip was otherwise uneventful until they reached Eastmarch. They had stopped briefly to drink and eat at a pond they encountered near noon, and then continued at a trot towards Eastmarch.

 _Danger. Bad. Big things. Big stompy things._

Blackthorne noted the giants bonfire, and had her band continue with caution, but what she had forgotten was horses were skittish creatures.

The horses, who had likely never even experienced steam in their lives, whined and shied, almost fighting each step as they trekked the hazy fields. A water spout hissed and spat boiling steam onto one of the horses. It reared, crying out in panic before yanking forward and taking off at a full gallop, depositing the rider on their ass and leaving them shouting after it as it raced away. Two more horses did the same, affected by their companions panic and sudden motion, taking their riders with them.

Blackthorne nickered to them, attempting to calm them. _Safe. Not hurt. Safe. Stay._

The horses nickered back in doubt: _Bad smell. Danger. Hissing water. Bad. Not safe. Must run from hissing. Hissing mean danger._

 _No. No danger. Safe. Stay. Just air._

A large shadow fell from the sky, and landed with a sickening crunch atop one of the riders. The horse cried out in agony and panic, as it attempted to crawl from under the weight; its rider rasped from somewhere underneath the twisted mass.

 _Not safe. Hurt. Danger. Bad . Bad. Bad. Scared. Hurt. Pain._

The object that had fallen atop them was one of the horses, it's neck and spine twisted at a horrifying angle, its broken ribs poking up under the skin and blood lolling from its tongue. There was an unsettling, rhythmic rumble coming closer.

"Run!" Blackthorne shouted, Arjorn breaking into a full run as she did so.

There was large, slender form peaking over the hills. A giant. It waved its club at them, both a threat and a sign to other giants a hunt was happening, then picked its pace. The remaining seven fled, the horses outrunning Arjorn, though he was not terribly slow himself.

Blackthorne swiveled her head, searching for more giants that may come. By some stroke of luck, no other giants came, and the giant behind them had lost interest, taking more interest in the trapped and panicking horse, Blackthorne turned her head away from it as it picked up its catch. A wet and sickening crunch echoed dully across the plains as Blackthorne turned her attention back to the end of the steamy plains.

They slowed down to a canter, then a trot some distance away, and took the opportunity to rest their mounts. Blackthorne wondered what had happened to the other two and insisted on waiting a bit before moving on.

An hour passed with no signs of the two returning and, crushing the twinge of doubt and failure seeping into her chest, she continued of the trail of the assassin, replacing any doubts with resolve.

* * *

Continuing on the main road, the wilds were strangely quiet, in a sense. Above, the clouds still thundered, and rain pattered on earth and rock, but there was little else. The wind moaned off of the mountains in an ominous way, giving a sense of emptiness as Faulklin and Shadowmere passed Kynesgrove and neared the White River.

The smell of sulfur was left behind, and a breeze blew in from the north, carrying frost. The walls of Windhelm were visible in the distance to their right, but only barely, cloaked by white fog that clung stubbornly to the land with no sun to lift it.

A group of crows followed them, perching in trees and keeping watch. They'd wait for him and Shadowmere to get a certain distance away and then transfer to other trees.

Right as the road bent northward, Faulklin decided to press onward straight into the rocky scrubland towards the river, stopping overlooking it near a waterfall and pondering whether or not to cross, nudging Shadowmere to walk in circles and double back on her path a few times, before wading into the shallows and heading upstream for a short ways, mostly only going as deep as the mare's belly.

If someone was tracking him, they might be using a hound - or if its the case of those same bandits, a bear. Let them pause over a lost scent for a while if so.

When the opposite cliff walls opened up to a proper slope near an abandoned shack, he rode Shadowmere up towards the main road again to continue north properly. Once on the road again, he picked up the pace, so as not to be spotted in case the trackers were close by.

Patches of snow began to dot the sides of the road, and soon melted into full blankets of it that covered everything less than a few inches tall. Rain turned to sleet and then snowflakes. The white river re-emerged into view, though now the edges of its banks were crusted in sheets of ice, while Windhelm sat only a short distance across the water, firmly built into the mountainside.

The thought of a hearth and meal was tempting, but all too obvious of a place to look. He wasn't that dumb, even if he was often considered reckless.

Over the hills and a bridge between waterfalls was a logging village with a few thatched-roof houses, and there was a good number of people outside braving the cold, chopping wood and hauling lumber. The sawmill at the river's edge clanked and ground loudly as it ran up and down, cutting entire trees in half as they went down the aisle, each of those halves falling into a pile below the elevated platform at the end. Faulklin earned a few leery looks that made it clear he was unwelcomed, but he had no intentions of stopping there anyway, even for as exhausted and hungry as he was.

The road from that point onward became increasingly close to vertical, Shadowmere's hooves slipping on ice that coated the stony road at least several times, travel becoming arduously slow simply to make it up the slope at all. By the time they crested the highest point and the path leveled out again, both Shadowmere's pelt and Faulklin's cloak had gone from deepest black to white with clinging snow and frost, with no civilization in sight.

Off to their immediate right was a mound of stone, barely poking out of the snow, with its edges lined in tall boulders. The earthen center of the circle was concave, creating a pit.

It wasn't ideal, but the sun was already below the horizon and it was only going to get colder. Frankly he had already had enough of the cold, and Dawnstar was still a long ways off.

Faulklin dismounted, and before long, horse, rider, and a sizeable flock of crows were huddled together around the heat of low flames, sharing warmth even as the snow piled in the deeper frigidity of night time. By morning, the concave had grown much larger, almost forming a sort of open-topped igloo around them simply with how much snow had fallen throughout the night.

Still with the thought of the trackers on his mind, Faulklin was up as soon as the sky started to lighten even a small amount. Chances were they wouldn't have followed him too closely with how the weather had turned, but now that day was soon to arrive, he couldn't take the chance.

Normally he would simply bypass travelling strictly by land, but his shoulders were still too weak for that, especially more because of the bear more than the arrow.

Briefly hunting and devouring a snow sabre that grew a little too curious of their snow pile, and taking some time to drink from the river, he continued on his way, feeling marginally more refreshed and ready to travel than before.

By mid-morning, they were passing an isolated mountain inn and the sun had come out, casting the white, crystalline-coated mountain in blinding, offensive reflection. By noon, they stopped to rest between a circle of stones and stone arches just off the main road with a statue of Talos at one side of it.

Some of the crows kept watch and flew down the road, others huddled on Faulklin's shoulder or lap for closeness and warmth, and others played in the snow, rolling down snow-covered steps and small hills, or pushing snow off of perches just to watch it fall. It was silent and peaceful, for a while.

Some of the crows came back however, reporting _Tracking! Following! Danger! Human-Danger! Bear-Danger!_

So that confirmed it then. Same damn mercenaries with the damn armored bear. They really carried enough of a grudge to follow him this far out into basically nowhere? He wasn't going to risk that fight. Not until his wounds were better, at least, and Shadowmere could outlast and outpace any other horse or bear. Let them follow. He could easily maintain a comfortable distance just a few steps ahead of them, and he had his crows to keep track of their movements more easily.

They returned to the main road and traveled at a quicker pace until just before Fort Dunstad in the mountain pass, then turned to their right up a steep hill and skirted around it. It was a difficult climb, but not impossible. Then they did almost a full-circle around the cliff back towards the fort, though ending up on the opposite side of it, and continued down the road.

In either direction, while they were trying to figure out which path he'd taken, they'd end up dealing with the bandits holed up in Fort Dunstad going one way and the ones in Fort Fellhammer trying to follow going the other way by the time they figured out which way he'd gone, so ultimately he was figuring it would be faster that way rather than a straight-shot of travel by slowing them down, if not thinning a few of their numbers in the process.

Not too much later, he saw the silhouette of a tower on a distant cliff, smelled the salty breeze of the Sea of Ghosts, and saw the expanse of dark water and islands of ice beyond the land-borders of Skyrim.

Dawnstar was just down the bend at last.

By then the clouds had returned to dump snow across the landscape - as if there wasn't already enough of it - and night encroached when he and Shadowmere finally arrived in the isolated little city that the Brotherhood called home. One of the Khajiit caravans was camped just outside the area and both guards and townspeople alike paid him no mind as he passed through towards a far shore just on the opposite side of town, where a hissing black door awaited.

He gave the blasted thing its required `password` and entered, towing Shadowmere along by the reins out of the cold. What crows were still following him hopped and flew in as well, shaking snow from their feathers.

Faulklin announced his presence by snapping, "The job's done," when he reached the main dining hall, where Nazir, Babette, and some other people he didn't care to learn the names of sat around eating and chatting.

"Welcome back!" Babette greeted warmly.

"Indeed," Nazir added, the Redguard looking unsurprised to see the boy back, and to hear that his Hit was successful. "Good work." Still, there was an appraising look that almost seemed to question _Had a rough time of it?_ "Your pay is already in your room. I saw no point in waiting for you to return."

Probably because he never failed.

Faulklin hummed and dismissed himself from their company, dropping Shadowmere's reins and leaving her there for someone else to deal with. He ducked down several hallways, a flock of blackbirds crowding each other as they followed him to the deepest and more finely furnished room that was his alone.

He locked the door once inside, birds and all, and only stayed on his feet long enough to put away his weapons on their proper racks, undress from his armor and all but his pants, and walk to his bed, where several of the birds were already huddled together in waiting.

They moved accordingly so that he could curl up comfortably amongst pelt blankets, and then once he was settled, huddled up on whatever perch around or on top of him they could find, nestled in a large pile of black feathers.

* * *

The sun had left them in darkness by the time they reached Windhelm. Their clothes were stiff from cold and spirits were low as they shuffled their way into Candlehearth Hall. Blackthorne booked them their rooms, placing a stack of gold upon the bar before heading upstairs in hopes of recruiting new members.

Upstairs was a hearth set at the center of the room, quickly chasing away the biting cold as bards sang their legends of old, and patrons chatted near the fire. Behind her were two tables with a couple men and women of varying races surveying the newcomers past mugs of mead. Blackthorne approached them confidently, setting a weighty pouch on one of the tables and allowing it to spill a few coins before anyone could bring up any questions.

"There's more of that if ye come with me," She promised to the four.

They eyed the coin with mixed suspicion and greed. She definitely had their attention.

A Redguard licked their lips then swiped a thumb over them in thought. "What exactly is this job we will be taking?"

"What are the risks?" asked an Imperial in suspicion, as if Blackthorne was sending them to fight some impossible foe, which she may very well be.

"Me an' my men are tracking a member of the Dark Brotherhood," she answered truthfully.

There were whispers among the mercenaries and one of them simply held up a hand to dismiss themselves then left to the downstairs. The remaining four looked back at the red-head as if she were mad, but then looked back to the gold.

"They dealt you dirt, I take it," the Redguard stated plainly. "No other reason someone would hunt those monsters."

"They killed several of me good men, and I aim ta make 'em pay for it."

There was a resigned sigh from the Redguard as their eyes wandered over the gold. "I'm in," they confirmed, holding out their dark-skinned hand for a shake. A few seconds passed and the other three placed out their hands as well.

"Good ta have ya in the crew,"Blackthorne greeted. "We move out as soon as the light touches the horizon."

They nodded agreement, knocking their mugs together at their new employer then pondered the rest of the night if they would somehow regret this later.

* * *

Dawn broke not at all silently the next day. Blackthorne burst into each room, shouting "C'mon, ya langers, les go!" Those that were not up within five minutes had mead poured upon their faces, sending them into spastic sputtering as they rolled from the bed.

They were on the road again within the hour, having eaten on the walk to the stables.

"I much preferred the asses at the inn," one of the men commented on his current view; a bears hind end, as they lost sight of Windhelm somewhere behind them.

The crew chuckled light-heartedly, then continued chatting about some thing or that had happened at the inn. Blackthorne didn't mind the noise, she much preferred it to the deafening silence that had coated the area. What she _did_ care about though, was those birds glaring at her from various perches.

She couldn't recall having ever done a crow wrong, she found them rather useful, and amusing at times, but now they were just… unsettling. She removed some bread and smoked meat from the saddle bag and tossed bits to the corvids, hoping, at the least, they'd become more interested in the food than staring at her. Maybe that's what they wanted, to just goad her into giving them food. If that was the case, she didn't mind sharing, she had brought enough for a few birds.

Arjorn didn't like the birds at all, however. Mostly because of them getting what he deemed as _his_ food, but also because they had a familiar tinge of scent to them. He couldn't place the smell, but he didn't like it. He kept his grumblings to himself though, deciding to swat the strange smelling birds away from their morsels that got too close to their path and take it for himself.

Blackthorne huffed at her companion in both scolding and joking: _Mean, bear. Don't know how to share. Bear is cub._

 _Don't like shadow birds. Smell funny. Take meat. Bad Shadows._

 _Still have meat. Not take all. Just take little._ Blackthorne assured him.

He huffed disagreement, but ceased bothering the birds.

* * *

Faulklin spent a good day and night simply resting in his bed, curled among fur-pelt blankets and the mass of birds that accumulated around or on top of him when he'd returned. They'd take turns stretching their wings and moving about the room, playing with some objects or eating what food was there on the table.

He didn't really care for any of the activity. His shoulders ached and he simply wanted to rest. There were two crows sitting on his arm where it was partially folded under his head as a cushion, the two birds leaning their bellies against his throat. One managed to find a cubby in the space between his chest and legs where he was curled into a ball, and another just beneath his other arm. Three crowded in the back crook of his knees, and another leaned its flank against the back of his neck. There were numerous others against his arched back and many more sitting all on top of him. Two others leaned against his head of brown hair. Others yet chose other spots of the bed or perched up on the bed frame or the book shelves overlooking the room.

There were clicks and croaks and crooning, birds talking to each other in affection and talking to him and about him. Occasionally he'd pet or scratch a few of them, lazily humming sounds of acknowledgement and then drift off back to sleep.

The second day after being sequestered away in his room, there was a knock on the door that wouldn't leave until he answered it. Grumbling reluctantly, he crawled out of bed and stood, dislodging comfortable crows from their perch and walking to the door.

It was comparably warm to the outside of Skyrim, but still chilly compared to the heat of the blankets and flock of birds that had roosted all over him and the bed. Along his exposed shoulders and down his back were glossy black feathers, not simply having settled on him from the birds themselves but his own, thick on his shoulder-blades and tapering down the small of his back and his arms into smaller and smaller feathers until stopping entirely. The chill was at least a little more tolerable, the feathers prickling slightly to fluff against any cold that still lingered in the room.

On the other side of the door stood what appeared to be a child - a young girl, at that - but he knew better than to judge her age on appearances. The vampire girl smiled at him, a mix of false innocence and something dangerously close to genuine warmth, and held out a red vial towards him. It was a healing potion. Babette was a very skilled alchemist.

"Here," she chirped. "I could smell the blood from when you first got back." Something Faulklin knew from experience, werewolves and vampires could smell his unusual scent, and pick it apart from most other humans. In most cases, it wasn't a good thing. Babette was an exception. "You really should take better care of yourself."

Faulklin huffed acknowledgement, but didn't comment. "Thanks," he muttered, the words somewhat forced, but the fact that he said them at all was astronomically rare at best. Some of the crows were using the time that the door was open to leave in search of food, since they'd already eaten everything his room had to offer.

"Mhm!" Babette returned, leaving him be.

The potion was a good one, and it sealed the wounds up to only fresh scars, but his shoulder still ached from the bear's jaws. He couldn't travel properly that way. He'd have to give it at least a couple more days.

Sighing, he turned back towards bed and left the door open so the birds could move about more freely as they wanted. About half left to search around the sanctuary for scraps, the other half staying and reclaiming their spots against him when he laid back down.

He stayed for a few days, mostly isolating himself away from the rest of the ruin. Babette and Nazir occasionally came to his room to leave food there at the table and strike up a few lines of dialogue, but none of the newer recruits to the guild dared even enter or approach. He would tolerate Nazir or Babette in his presence, but the rest were not allowed to get close to him. A few found that out the hard way.

After some days, his shoulder felt better. He might still feel it in flight, but at least he would probably be able to stay airborne for a decent distance.

He gathered up his gear and cloak, and without a word to anyone, he left by the other exit tunnel that wound underneath Dawnstar and let out just beyond the town, out of sight of anyone. The crows that had followed him exited as well, the whole flock gathering en masse and waiting for him to take the lead.

He Shifted when he was sure there was no one around to see it, body becoming larger and sprouting full feathers, gaining a beak and tail, before he took to the sky. His shoulder still panged, but not enough to ground him, and he kept going, far past Dawnstar to the open wilds and then higher towards the mountain peaks, heading due southwest.

* * *

Tei-Kur yawned and shook his head, the pale green-blue Argonian stretching his claws.

The day before, the one everyone in the Brotherhood referred to as _Listener_ had left.

It was sort of strange. The only different was that there were a lot of crows suddenly in the sanctuary, but no one really saw the black-cloaked assassin at all while he was there. Emphasis was put on the fact that he _did not_ want to be disturbed by anyone, though Nazir and Babette were exceptions to this for some reason, maybe because they were much more long-standing members. The Listener was legendary among them, even Nazir acknowledged him with a certain kind of respect.

Why wouldn't he though? The elusive assassin had taken the life of the Emperor of all Tamriel, despite various complications. No kind of pushover could accomplish that.

But for as much as they heard _of_ him, they rarely if ever saw him. Tei-Kur recalled hearing that a recruit actually mistook him as a trespasser once and attacked, and soon found themselves dead. Many of them didn't even know what he _looked_ like.

And just like that, he was gone again, as were the birds. He supposed that might be why Nazir was the leader, rather than the Listener, who would normally hold the position. It was simply strange.

Somewhat distracted by his own thoughts, he exited the sanctuary by the main way, and immediately he was jumped by a small group of armed strangers he never expected to be there.

He drew a sword and fought them off for a short while, but quickly managed to become overwhelmed and pinned by hands and threat of blade.

"Who in Oblivion do you people think you are, attacking an assassin of the Brotherhood here? Think you'll get away with this?" he hissed.

"We're here lookin' for someone," one of them barked. "Short fellow dressed in lots of black that was in Riften a week ago."

"The Listener?" he breathed. He laughed, finding it ironic. "Not here. He already left a fortnight ago. You can always try to find him, but I'd turn back if I were you." Seeing the confused looks, he added, "He has somewhat of a… _reputation_. Take him on, and you'll all end up dead. Now get off me, or I'll see to that task myself!" he warned, pressing his blade to the throat of one.

They backed off, and were quick to scurry away to the local inn. Probably best to warn Nazir about this, in case they became a problem for the whole guild.

* * *

Blackthorne sat at the bar with a mug of mead in hand as she waited impatiently for her men to return. It had been _days_ since their arrival in Dawnstar and the discovery of the entrance to the Darkbrotherhood and still they had not found _**him**._ They hadn't figured out the answer to the question offered by the creepy door, but someone had to come out eventually and when they did, they would have questions to answer.

Blackthorne bounced her knee up and down, her irritation growing as the hours trickled by. She tossed her mug at the door as it opened then leapt from her seat as the three she'd stationed returned. They were early to return from their shift which meant they had news. The mercenaries did not look so excited, however.

"We managed to question an Argonian that came through the door," the Imperial stated, looking unsettled. "He informed us the assassin we were looking for had already left. He also let it slip that-"

Blackthorne cut him off with a string of slurs. "He can't be gone! " she shouted, kicking at the nearest chair and startling the innkeeper. "I didn't come all this way, lose all me men just to hear he's 'Gone'!"

She was seething, her face red as she paced the floor, kicking chairs across the room and flipping tables, oblivious to the barkeep trying to calm her. She paused in her rampage to look at the three and ask "Did you _at least_ get where he had gone?"

"No," the Redguard sighed, rifling around in his pouches for something. "The Argonian also informed us the man you're seeking is the Listener of the Brotherhood."

Blackthorne looked at the three with mild patience. "So? He listens to dead people. Ye gonna run away?"

The Redguard pulled the coins she had given him for his share from his pouch and handed them back to her. "I'm afraid I'm doing just that." He sighed with regret. "I'm not getting myself killed for your vengeance and I suggest you cease in your foolish goal, lest you find yourself dead."

The other two followed his lead, returning their payments then walking out into the frigid night air, likely returning to Windhelm before he Brothehood set their sights on them.

"Fine! Leave, ye bloody shites!" She opened the door to toss a mug at the trio then slammed it shut to continue her brooding over drink.

* * *

Hours later the redhead lay head down at the bar in emotional turmoil as she mulled over how many men she'd lost just to get here and what her next course of action should be.

She couldn't just _go home empty handed_ …could she? She had _promised_ both the living and dead vengeance, but now it would have to be dropped. She could just…buy her time and _wait_ for him to return to town, but that could be weeks or months, and she didn't have the man power to keep her stay pleasant. Likely they'd be dead within the week if they stayed. She thought of going back to the Sanctuary and demanding another answer, but that, too, was too bold a move, even for her.

She sighed deeply as she lifted her head and stared into the mug half empty of - probably now flat - mead. Her upper body ached from leaning on the counter so long, her head throbbed with an oncoming headache and somewhere behind her the remaining four - human - members of this journey were whispering, likely discussing their options. Bed was starting to sound good right now…

She decided they would leave in the morning, staying here much longer would be too risky, and with that thought she returned to her room and curled up against Arjorn's side. Arjorn blew her hair in a comforting huff and she faded into the darkness of sleep soon after.


	3. Chapter 3

**Hunters and Hunted  
A Skyrim Fanfiction  
Original RP with higekihigure  
**

* * *

It was mid morning before Blackthorne managed to wake, and that was mostly on part of Arjorn roughly but still-gently headbutting and rolling her over until she awoke.

She shoved the bears head away with one hand and held her head with the other "I'm awake, I'm awake," she groaned.

The remainder of her crew had woken some hour or two ago, if they'd slept at all, and were already saddled and waiting; they wanted to leave. They knew staying any longer would risk bringing the Brotherhood upon them. They'd only come for the one, not the whole guild. She shared their concern and had Arjorn ready within minutes and within the hour they were half way down the road from Dawnstar.

Arjorn stopped not long after, sniffing the air with a confused huff.

"What is it?" Blackthorne questioned.

 _Shadow here, not here._ Arjorn rumbled. _Many shadow birds._

 _Where?_ Blackthorne questioned.

 _Here not here. Was here. Gone here._

that was possibly the most confusing reply Blackthorne had ever gotten from Arjorn. How could a person just appear in a spot then disappear from the very same spot? She shook her head at the thought, it wasn't possible.

 _Silly cub. Old scent. Shadow can't fly. Shadow human. Human no fly. Silly._

Arjorn seemed to frown at this, but continued on in silence. He knew what he smelled, it wasn't old, but companion was right; humans could not. The shadow birds had taken him, that was a possibility. Shadow was small and light, light enough for birds to carry, maybe.

They made it to Windhelm by nightfall and then were home by noon of the next day.

Blackthorne said nothing of finding, or in this case _not_ finding the assassin and when asked of it she simply distracted them with drink and merriment. It wore on her daily that she'd wasted good mens' lives on her vendetta to not even accomplish it. Byrnjolf's words also wore on her… perhaps he had been right.

 _No._ She wasn't going to let this get her down. She was many things but a defeated 'child' she was not. Perhaps she'd catch the assassin another day. Surely they'd meet again, and when they did, she would kick his ass.

* * *

Some days passed and Blackthorne fell into her old duties as Brigand leader and a black market salesman. She'd paid Maven to overlook her failures, much to her own annoyance, and had continued with life. It was a boring, repetitive life, but it was good, something she was good at. Sitting around guarding people all day was never really her thing anyway.

* * *

About a month into settling back into her life, she had grown bored of it. Nothing interesting really happened when pillaging small towns with barely anything to offer, and one rarely assaulted the fort.

She was in Riften one day, listening to rumors and browsing bounty posts as she sipped at a mug of mead, when a particular rumor caught her ear.

"-its this _giant_ bird," someone said, a twinge of terror in their voice. "I ain't taking that bounty, you can shove that flier up your ass. You're crazy. It'll rip you to shreds."

Blackthorne turned to the speakers, a group of mercenaries with a flier. She could see the bounty numbers from ten feet away. She spat out her drink and made her way over, instantly interested.

"What makes a bird worth this much?" she asked, grabbing the flier.

The mercenaries humored what they thought to be a child and explained. "It's a giant bird in the Reach, said to be as big as an inn. It's been terrorizing the people of the Reach for far too long." The mercenary swiped the flier away and knelt down to eye-level with the small red-head. "Perhaps your mother or father would like to help us?"

Blackthorne uppercut the man with a grin, swiping the flier as it fell out of his grip. She wasn't even mad. In fact, he'd just given her the best news she'd heard in months; something interesting to hunt for. "I'm in!" she announced "We're gonna kick that bird's ass and fry it on a spit!"

* * *

As Faulklin more or less expected, the Riften mercenaries lost his trail. Pursuers always did. Maybe he was mildly disappointed. He'd like to have a second go at them again, and this time he wouldn't be caught unaware by an armored bear, but he knew where they hid out.

If he ever grew bored enough, he knew where to look, and since he wouldn't be on an official job, he wouldn't have to go about doing it the silent-and-careful way to avoid a mark getting away. Next time he could go full out.

For now, the birds patrolled and reported nothing of them, so he didn't need to think about it until later. For now, he had other priorities.

He had spent a good deal of time scouring the tall, jagged cliffs of the Reach, looking for areas where Forsworn would be hiding, hunting them. He had a reputation already among all peoples of the Reach, but among the Forsworn especially. _Black Wings_ was barely whispered most times, until he appeared, and then it was screamed as if the name they had called him in his bestial form might ward off the curse come to kill them all.

Most areas he had already cleared at one point or another, but somehow more Forsworn kept establishing themselves after he left, springing back up out of hiding like filthy cockroaches. Today he was doing a sweep of Lost Valley Redoubt and Bard's Leap all over again.

His presence appearing over the stones alone made most of them flee like rabbits towards their bolt holes, only a few firing arrows or spells in his direction. Mostly they were Briarhearts or higher ranks in the tribe. He dodged what ones he could and ignored the sting of those that hit, swooping down on top of them.

The ones with projectiles he focused on first. Best to get them out of the way. He pounced from above with talons and carried them into the sky, before dropping them from a lethal height. What animal-skin tents were set up around the ruins he dropped on and ripped into the sky, taking away their hiding places and leaving them open.

Several finally boldly stood firm to face him, firing arrows and spells alike, some taking small axes and hefting them through the air. One cut across his outer thigh and he screeched, falling down straight ton top of them and crushing their torso in his beak, knocking another into a rock with a whip-like swing of his tail. The one in his beak was skinned and nearly ripped in half when he grabbed them in one clawed foot and tore the other way with a deft flick of his head.

One screamed in fury at him and jumped onto his back with an animal-bone blade, but he rolled and knocked the wind out of them, before leaping and ripping them open, and not cleanly so either.

Arrows lodged in his side and he screeched, launching after the arches poised on a wall. Several leapt off of it and rolled as they hit the ground. He was on them in seconds and burned them alive with an explosion of flames.

Others that he attacked he gored with claws or speared them simply in pouncing and taking them into the sky before dropping them. Further up at the source of the water that fed the falls, he found a pair of Hagravens and a Briarheart. The Briarheart he leapt on as they were crossing the river and pecked them to death, and the Hagravens he went after were soon to follow, one that he beheaded and another crushed against a half-moon wall.

The last he found hovering on the stone pathway that followed the river to a waterfall overlooking a pool of water. They stood shaking, considering whether to fight or flee, and ultimately they turned and fled. He lunged and missed as they ran through an archway too narrow for him to fit through, but it only slowed him long enough to need to backtrack and leap up and over it, bristling and screeching.

The man took a near-suicidal leap off the edge of the platform and into the pool of water below. The height was no kind of deterrent, and Faulklin merely dropped down on top of him, trapping him under the deep water until the body under him stopped struggling. He dragged them out just to make sure, standing over them long enough that if they were going to take a breath, they would have, but they didn't move.

He took to the air and patrolled the whole ruin a good few laps, but there was no stone unturned or anywhere else to hide, and he took perch on a jagged peak overlooking the ruin and the main road, going still and watching for movement of any he may have missed. In the thick fog of the Reach, he blended against the rocky landscape, unseen to any who didn't know he was there.

While he was sitting and waiting to see or hear anything, one of the many local crows called from across the water on a tree.

 _Bear! Humans! Tracking-Bear! Threat!_

The same mercenaries as before? He stayed still and watched, waiting, and sure enough, he saw a small band appear coming down the road. Among them was a bear, dressed in full armor and carrying a small figure on its back.

Were they still tracking him? Or were they simply here on another matter?

Reasons weren't important. His shoulders had healed and he could fly without restraint. If they were here for him, fine. If they weren't, just as well. He would finish what he started anyway.

He sat and waited for them to get as close as they would by the main road, before unfurling his wings and diving, announcing his presence with a deafening screech.

* * *

Blackthorne had expected _finding_ the bird more of a challenge than actually fighting it, but was proven wrong as a monstrous shadow fell upon them and a screech echoed through the air, causing Blackthorne to cover an ear with a wince, looking up as black wings spread from the mists.

" _It's the Black Wings of the Reach!" s_ houted the mercenaries, pulling out their weapons and scattering.

Blackthorne rolled her eyes. Of course it was 'The Blackwings', what else would it be, a giant chicken?

She leapt off Arjorn, taking a bow from his saddle and nocking three arrows, aiming them carefully at the birds chest. She doubted it would do much damage, if at all, but it was worth the shot. She was ready to release the arrows when the bird shifted slightly, to glide in her and Arjorn's direction.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, scampering to the side with Arjorn in tow.

The bird flew past, missing its target by mere feet as its feathers ruffled above them and currents left the small Bosmer clinging to the bears armor for support as wind whipped past them. The bird let out a small noise, as if annoyed it had missed, but snatched up a mercenary that had been too slow in one foot, and stalled to a landing on the other.

The bird slammed the screaming mercenary into the ground. The man clawed at the dirt, his screaming escalating as the beast crushed him underneath. There was a wet, crunching sound as the mans spine and ribs splintered. His eyes grew wide as his screams cut off into a gurgle as blood spilled from his mouth. The man twitched, but said no more, and the bird left him to choke on his own, ragged breathing.

"Fall into position!" the lead mercenary shouted, pointing his sword at the Blackwings.

* * *

Faulklin was vexed that he managed to miss the bear, considering it was by far the largest thing there, but it couldn't be helped. He kept going anyway, springing on whatever next poor sap wasn't fast enough to evade him instead and crashing into them full-tilt. They didn't have any heavy armor, so the speed and force that hit the man shattered his bones and left him sputtering on blood.

Fine enough. One down already.

He heard the shout to regroup, and he immediately sprung upwards, claws scraping on stone several feet up and pushing off of it to the side. The biggest problem was going to be the bear.

He knew first-hand the feel of its bite or the force of a bear paw's swing that could crush the skull of a sabre cat and kill it in two or three hard swipes. He wasn't going to chance any blows, and that meant getting his own in early.

He pushed off the rocks and immediately onto the bear's back, digging talons into any crevice or ledge on its armor that he could get a grasp on and flapping wings hard. If he could lift it high enough, or at least move it far enough before dropping it - preferably somewhere in the river to be carried away or drown - then he would have little else to worry about while he dispatched of the men and mer.

While he pounced on the bear, other smaller birds began to swarm, diving down at the mercenaries in a cloud that was more of a distraction than a danger, but there were enough to cause a significant problem even so, diving and pecking.

* * *

"No!" Blackthorne shouted, almost seeming to harshly scold the bird as she leapt onto the squirming bear's leg and grappled her way up the sides, skillfully unhooking latches as she did so until she reached the shoulder. She fiddled with the latch on the neck a little longer than she'd have liked, but it came free, and she crawled to the other side to repeat the process.

The bear toppled forward and scraped the ground with his front claws. Arjorn groaned in fear as his companion moved to cling to the birds scaled foot and reached over with her axe to cut the back braces loose.

The bear flopped to the ground, scratched and probably bruised, but otherwise unharmed, as the bird was left with just the shell of armor, and a small bosmer as well.

Blackthorne hadn't really planned this out past getting Arjorn down and clung to the bird's ankle as it was yanked upward from the release of its burden. She looked down briefly, then swallowed hard at the height which seemed to spin and twist beneath them. It was too late to jump now, she would simply have to wait for the bird to land… or climb further up.

* * *

The bear was astoundingly heavy, though Faulklin knew to expect as much. It was a bear after all. It wasn't as heavy as he would have guessed though, and he managed to lift it a few feet off the ground by the time several front latches on the armor were undone. When the last were cut by an axe, he was actually surprised to find out exactly how _light_ the armor was by itself.

 _Enchanted?_ That was the only explanation he could think of, though he hadn't really encountered such a thing before. Even so, it made flying suddenly a lot easier, and he had at least cleared the obstacle of the bear's armor, which would leave it more properly exposed to attack from above. He had thought of flipping the beast on its back earlier, but didn't fancy having to make it past fangs and claws to attack its exposed belly. Now he wasn't going to have to.

He ascended above the cliffs and disposed of the armor between rock crevices, though he wasn't without noticing the tag-along on his leg. Generally though, most who made it this far didn't fancy falling to their death enough to attack his legs, and he _always_ took advantage of that.

He launched straight up into the sky, beating wings as hard as he could until they were in the clouds, the bear little more than a speck below them, and then simply stopped, momentum making them hover for a moment in place, and then go into a backwards free-fall plummeting back towards Nirn.

* * *

For a moment, Blackthorne thought she might go unnoticed, but soon found that was not the case. She hefted her axes, ready to plunge them into the birds leg, but it shot violently upwards before she could.

The force knocked the wind out of her and forced her to clamber for a tighter grip on the smooth, but rough edged scales. She locked her axes around the ankle, their tips digging into the scales as the beast shot up further and further. The wind was vicious, preventing her from taking a breath and she soon became light-headed in the frigid altitude. When the bird stopped, she felt weightless, almost as if she was floating, and she took the opportunity to gasp a few breaths before the bird curved back into a dive that left her breathless once more.

She hugged the ankle tightly, her hands becoming painfully numb as she gripped the wooden handles and they dug ever so deeper into the scales. She wondered briefly if she'd fly off into the atmosphere if she let go, or simply fall to the ground. It was not something she wished to test. Instead she decided she'd risk climbing to the beast's back and take out its wings. A downed bird was often a dead one after all.

Below them the archers and a few spell casters were readying their attacks for when the bird came back into sight.

* * *

The sting in his ankle told Faulklin that she was not letting go as he descended, but all the same, it was probably all she could do just to hold on. Fine enough. He adjusted his angle of descent, wings twitching just slightly away from his body to control his dive, and when he got close to the ground, he opened his wings suddenly and arched his entire body.

Only a few meters above the cliffs, he snapped from a dive back into an upwards motion, almost doing a full 180. See if she could still hold on after _that_.

* * *

Blackthorne thought she just might vomit. Just as she thought the ride was about over, the damned buzzard began to position itself to bolt back upwards.

"Stop that, ye damn bird brain!" she shouted at it in the few seconds of respite she had.

Her knuckles were white with the effort of keeping hold, pain throbbing through them, but she had to hold on, if she fell now she would die. Her heart skipped a beat as her hands slipped from the wooden handles and she plummeted to the ground.

Luckily, the fall had not been steep and she landed with a painful thud onto the cold rock of the cliffs, rolling slightly until she slid to a stop. She was in pain, but alive as she stood, hissing at the perforated blisters on her palms and the twinging pain in her right shoulder and leg. She watched the bird continue upward taking her axes with it into the clouds. That was fine, she still had a couple of knives in her boot straps she could use.

She winced as she took a step to climb down the cliff side. It was likely she had dislocated her arm and fractured something in her leg. She fumbled for the pouch at her side in hopes of finding the potions that had survived the fall.

Most of them had broken, sopping the bag with their contents and scattering bits of glass. She managed to find a small, unbroken vial and drank it. It wasn't as strong as her others and it merely dulled the pain away, but it would have to work for now.

She watched the bird closely and began to pick her way down the rocks, keeping to the shadows as best she could to avoid being spotted. Not far below, Arjorn was doing the same, although his form made it difficult to actually hide. She thought of signaling him to hide elsewhere, somewhere clearly safer and away from her, but she was hidden and she had spotted something useful. Assuming the bird didn't continue its interest in Arjorn, they could likely use it.

There was a large, precarious slab of stone jutting out from the cliff side. If they could just get the bird under it, she and Arjorn could likely dislodge it and trap the bird underneath, but that was going to require leaving the safety of her cubby hole to get to the mercenaries and inform them of this plan.

* * *

Faulklin flew upwards and banked around to the side, aiming for an adjacent cliff on the opposite side of the road to land on and dislodge the point of the axes biting into his ankle, removing them easily enough.

A few arrows clattered near him, others lodged in his flesh, and he shook with pain and fury at the mercenaries, leaping back to the air and swooping down to ram and pluck them up off the road and make them regret trying to take him on.

He'd meant to take care of the bear first, but now that its armor was out of the way it was less of a problem and the arrows were becoming annoying. Besides, the fall had probably done a good job crippling their redheaded leader, so she would be an easy enough target once he dealt with the rest.

* * *

Once Arjorn had picked his way far enough up the cliff-side, Blackthorne clawed her way painfully up his side, tangling her fingers into his fur to scrabble onto his bare back. Once atop him she pat his hefty shoulder and directed him down the mountains toward the nearest mercenary.

It took some effort on Arjorn's part to quickly traverse the rocky incline, but they made it to the bottom with little incident. Blackthorne had the bear stay near the bottom and hobbled over to a man who was firing arrows at the bird, though they had little effect. She told them of her plan, then had them pass the plan along. She could only hope the bird would cooperate.

The plan wasn't perfect, but it would have to do. First they would have to lure the bird into landing, and then a few of the others would have to lure it near the cliff, close enough that she could signal Arjorn to slam down upon the out-hanging and bring it down atop the bird. For now, the bear would stay at the bottom, just until the right moment struck, and then, once the bird landed, she would tell him to go up the mountain, again. They'd only get one shot at this.

* * *

Faulklin swooped overhead and noticed the bear and its master picking their way down the rocks to the group, even as one of the mercenaries was struggling in his talons. He didn't pay them much attention, flinging them carelessly into the air as he backwinged.

He could recognize the hurried, concentrated look of a strategy when he saw it. Just what were they planning?

He reversed direction and dove after them again, looking to pluck another into the sky, but they all scattered in just the right directions for him to miss and he croaked his displeasure.

They regrouped and started firing arrows and spells towards him, some shouting and waving for his attention, goading him on to try another attack.

He wasn't buying it.

The black-feathered avianthrope ascended up to the cliffs overlooking the road from high above and landed, hopping along the tops of jagged rocks and watching them all the while.

Were they trying to lure him close enough to the bear that it could strike him with its claws? Or perhaps they thought that if they all jumped him at once they could keep him grounded long enough to attack his wings and keep him from flying? Did they possibly have nets or ropes to snare him with? He wouldn't be surprised.

Didn't matter. He would deal with them all the same.

Flames flickered to life across his feathers, at first nothing but wisps and embers, but they roared to greater life when he leapt down straight above them and arched his wings all the way back so the wind would not carry him. Clearly, they were surprised, and scattered again, though most not far enough since the flames exploded outward in all directions as a wave when he landed.

He had more than one trick up his sleeve.

* * *

The heat of the flames exploding from the bird was intense, bright, almost blinding in the shadows of the cliff side. Mercenaries scattered in panic, a few catching light and running blindly as their skin sizzled and stripped away into ash; the smell was horrific, their screams strained as their lungs breathed in embers.

Blackthorne rose her arm instinctively to shield her eyes against the glare.

"No one told us the damned thing could catch light!" One would have thought that would have been the _first thing_ they'd have mentioned during the hiring process. "Everyone, stay calm! Keep your positions!" she shouted to the panicking men, but few listened. The amount paid was _not_ worth the risk of burning alive.

She couldn't blame them, their plan had flown out the window in an instance. They had brought rope for sure; ropes with barbed hooks and slender, sharp rods, but they were _rope;_ a material that burned easily, and the whole bird was alight in flickering flames. There was no way the ropes would hold.

She half growled in annoyed determination. She wasn't going to return home empty handed a second time. Her eyes scanned the flaming beast for _anything_ she could use against it, and found the answer she was looking for. The bird was an entire ball of flame… _save for its legs,_ and she could use this to their advantage.

She huffed in Arjorn's direction and the bear took off at a clip up the cliff side. Blackthorne nabbed the reigns of the closest horse as it shied and whinnied in place, unsure if to stay or follow suit in the human's panic.

 _Stay. Together safe._ Blackthorne assured it as she clumsily climbed into the much taller pack beast's saddle. At its side was the rope secured to the saddle horn and a crossbow that would fire it. She quickly untied them from the saddle.

She motioned to a mounted archer, his eyes wide as he looked for salvation from this situation. He swallowed hard and nodded his understanding to the small red-head and he readied his own.

It was all or nothing, and they only had one chance at this.

* * *

The mercenaries scattered and screamed, unsurprisingly. Most of them seemed to forget the river that was only meters away from the road in their panicked haste.

He managed to grab one of the nearest, silencing the man after introducing his head to a cliff wall with a side-snap of his own head. The majority of them fled far and fast, or at least those who weren't burning alive who dropped somewhere down the road, still within sight.

That left only two or three more…

He was distracted - or rather, focused on - those same aforementioned remainder when pain went through one of his haunches, like the bite of an arrow, but worse.

 _A bolt?_ More akin to a harpoon, he realized, the barb on the end holding fast when he instinctively leapt away to fly. _A harpoon and a rope_.

He whirled on the one who had shot it on his direction and was pulling the reins of a horse for the animal to back up, and in turn pulling _him_. He hissed aloud, both in pain and rage, as he slid a foot or two from the horse's pull.

Fine then, they wanted to pull him closer? He'd save them the trouble.

He whirled, bristling and aflame, and launched towards them, half-flying and bounding head-on. They were only two people and frightened mounts, and he could still fly.

* * *

Blackthorne side-glanced up at Arjorn, the large bear rearing up, then slamming down as he attempted to dislodge the weakening stone and bring it down upon the bird. Their plan to pull the bird into their trap had been successful, but the stone above wasn't breaking nearly as fast as Blackthorne had hoped it would and she became fearful it wouldn't break at all as the bird launched at them, fury and flame focused on their demise.

A loud _Crack!_ echoed through the small canyon as the rocks above began to teeter and topple, they had managed to bring down a rockslide, but would it even hit the bird by this point?

* * *

Faulklin had suspected a trap before, but this wasn't what he had assumed it to be. He was realizing that too late, but he'd been told time and again that he was often too hasty and too blind when he got deep into a conflict.

He thought of pulling back, to reverse his direction, but then he'd have slowed, so he charged on, launching at the mounted mercenaries. Almost clear… almost-

His head and wings cleared it, but that was all. The avian scream that resulted was foreign and horrible even to him. More than just one something broke under the weight of the falling peak. He writhed and twisted under crushing stone, trying to wrench free. Crows that had scattered and found hiding in the rocks and trees nearby flocked upwards in a cloud and dove at the mercenaries while he struggled, bracing wings against cliff walls and the ground for leverage.

It was arduous and agonizing, but he managed to push himself up by one leg that threatened to collapse under him, bucked the rock up and launched out from under it to the side of the road, arching up over the path and onto a cliff perch above. He landed with the better leg first, and collapsed onto the second broken one, flailing wings from being set off balance.

The boulder was gone, but it still hurt beyond description, pulsing flame through his veins yet feeling oddly numb in some places. He could scarcely breathe around it, much less fight, and launched into the air.

 _Again_ he had faced the same mercenary woman and her bear, and _again_ he had been bested. Twice because of her and her bear, he'd been wounded enough to force a retreat. He would not forget that any time soon, but for the moment, he couldn't fight. Not like this.

He launched into the air, flying hard and away. He needed to retreat somewhere to lick his wounds, as it were, but the _next_ time, things would end differently.

* * *

Blackthorne almost felt sorry for the creature as she covered her ears from the horrid screech that emitted from it.

 _Almost._

It _had_ tried to murder them, and had succeeded in killing most of her companions and likely many more people before that.

She was about to let out a cheer for victory when a swarm of feathers and fluster swarmed her and her partner, blocking out all but a flicker of the creature as it lurched up and over them. Blackthorne croaked her displeasure at the crows for their interference, a croak that would have been equivalent to a harsh _Back off_ in crow tongue, but the birds didn't seem to care. They dissipated in their own time, following the larger bird into the distance.

The Blackwings had escaped.

Blackthorne cursed several 'colorful' phrases before looking over the remains of the battle. Bodies lay crushed and charred in the pass, a few of them still breathing, but that would soon cease. Arjorn was clattering down the rocky slopes and she leapt from the stunned horse to hug her large companion. Her leg ached with the landing but she ignored it as she hugged the bear head close to her chest.

 _Together. Unstoppable. Win. Beat big Shadow Bird. Safe. Love. Together Love. Safe._ They rumbled to each other

Beyond the rubble and beside her, mercenaries were cheering, aware their bounty had gotten away, but just glad to be alive. Blackthorne shared their cheer, raising a fist to the sky as they let out the remainder of their adrenaline and fear.

Those last seconds had been close, and her heart still thudded loudly in her ears and her blood still surged through her veins like fire as she imagined what would have happened had Arjorn failed. She shook the thoughts away, stiffly and clumsily climbing up onto Arjorn's back as they began picking their way over the rubble.

"Let's head to the Inn!" she announced with the last of her energy after they had reached the other side.

Adrenaline was quickly setting into quivering and then weakness as fatigue took over. She flopped forward onto Arjorn's warm and muscled neck, letting herself pass into half sleep as they made their way back to Old Hroldan, weary but alive.

They would find the birds nest in the morning.


	4. Chapter 4

**Hunters and Hunted  
A Skyrim Fanfiction  
Original RP with higekihigure  
**

* * *

Nanara heard the shriek, and it was far too chillingly familiar. It sounded like it was in pain beyond pain though, and that was enough to make her pause. Was someone fighting it?

Were they _winning_?

Most would be unable to tell where it originated from at such a distance, but she had lived in these hills her entire life. She knew where and how the sound carried, could tell apart if it bounced off of one cliff or another.

She leapt from her seat and dashed out of the dome ruin of Four Skull Lookout, grabbing her bow and latching on her quiver. She knew every footfall and tussock of grass, nimbly sprinting across the flat peak towards the east, blazing past the entrance to Red Eagle Redoubt and over jagged stones with the grace and self-assuredness of a mountain sabre.

Just after skirting Soljund's Sinkhole and skidding down the rocks, she heard its wing-beats on the wind and instinctively ducked into the nearest crevice, going completely still.

It was then that it flew over, big and black, with a massive flock of crows riding its tailwind, a chorus of rough voices that drown out all other sound as they passed.

And then it was gone.

She was safe.

She breathed out a sigh and scrambled back up the cliffs, catching a distant glimpse of the massive bird and its flock vanishing towards the coastal mountains that bordered the Reach and Haafingar - to Deepwood Redoubt.

For a while she wondered who had been fighting it, but knew that whoever they were, they'd probably lost; the fight, _and_ their lives. Should she even bother investigating further?

She sighed, looking down the cliffs. Well… she was quite close to the Old Hroldan. She might as well get a drink and warm up by the fire before returning to her camp, and hope no one stumbled upon anything they wanted for themselves.

Interestingly enough, it was after she arrived that there were a few faces she didn't recognize, but they looked exhausted and retired from a fight. She idly wondered if these could be the people the Black Wings was after. If so, they had probably run after being ambushed from above, entirely unaware. Poor saps.

Still, they were lucky to have lived.

Ordering a drink, she lingered for a while and confirmed from the talk that was going on that they had indeed faced off against the Black Wings, recounting how most of their number had either fled or perished. That was entirely unsurprising.

One of them - a red-haired lass that looked shorter than her years - said something about continuing after it. The Reachwoman almost spat her drink across the room.

"Are you completely mad?" The girl must be. "You want to hunt that thing down after seeing what it can do?"

* * *

Blackthorne looked at the woman with a smug grin. "Shoulda seen what we did to _it,"_ She bragged, holding up her mug with a slight cringe. Her small crew raised their own in agreement. "Damn thing's likely dyin' up in some mountains right now, and if its not then it will be by the time we get through with it."

She had already discussed it with the remaining crew and assured them it was possible, and once they brought back the buzzard's head they'd demand higher reward for their troubles. If the raise was not permitted she would see to it that they work on an 'agreement'. Surely it wouldn't be hard as the ones who'd slain the Black Wings of the Reach.

Arjorn huffed minor agreement as he lay with his head on his paws. He was tired and sore. Somewhere in the back of his mind was a nagging memory, but it could wait, for now he would sleep.

Blackthorne reached behind her, scratching the bear's head with a soft smile as she huffed comforts to him. She didn't have any more potions and her own limbs were sore, especially her right. It would be fine though, she hoped.

* * *

Nanara shook her head. _Outsiders_. _Sticking their noses where they think they belong._

"You'll end up dead," she assured them. "The Forsworn and many others before you have been trying to be rid of it for years, and there are… rumors." She knew all of the stories and tales. Every Reachman and Reachwoman did by now.

The Black Wings was a bane to any in the Reach be they man, mer, or beastfolk, and sometimes elsewhere when the creature roamed outside the canyon region, but it was _their_ curse before it had been anyone else's.

"Its said that the Black Wings is no normal creature, you know… more unlived than Draugr or Daedra, only bested in its undying nature by the Old Gods, and its memory is long. Besides, by the time you find its nest, it'll have grown ready for you again. No one alive in Markarth will be able to tell you where it rests."

Foolish. That was the only word for it. They were going to end up dead, just as so many of her kinsmen and others. She shook her head and took another drink.

* * *

"If it's so 'unlived', where has it been all these years?" Blackthorne sneered, believing in neither gods nor legends; few held any truth to them.

Behind her, Arjorn was grumbling something about scents, but it was lazy and muffled.

"That buzzard won't be doin' much of anything for a long while, if ever again," she continued, only faltering in her sneer at the last part.

Her grin faded as she fell into thought, then she brightened once more

"Ya say no one _inside_ Markarth can tell us where the creature be, but what about outside it? Ye seem to know an awful lot about this creature." A sinister undertone entered her voice, her eyes taking a greedy, knowing look to them, though her smile stayed as she looked the woman in the eyes. "Perhaps ya even know where it nests."

* * *

"I know the place," Nanara confirmed grimly. "The same spot as where the curse all began. It used to be a place we called home."

She shook her head once more, as if all the head-shaking would make it disappear like a bad dream.

"Not now though. Maybe not ever again. None of my people will step foot near it, and outsiders who do never return, or if they do, they do so falling from the sky. No matter how many blows that thing takes or how hard you try to kill it…" She did a brief throat-cutting motion. "Doesn't matter. It always returns, worse than before."

* * *

Blackthorne leaned forward, interested. "Perhaps ye'd be inclined to take us there?" she asked, though the growling undertone may have made it sound more of a threat than a general question. "It wouldn't be without pay, of course." She pulled a small coin pouch from her belt and tossed it in front of the woman, letting it fall with a loud thunk onto the wooden table.

* * *

Nanara eyed the pouch, not so much with greed as much as sorrow and resignation. She blew out a breath.

"Not going to be dissuaded, are you?" Really an answer wasn't needed. "If you're so set on your death, then fine, I can show you the place. If it shows itself before we make it there, you're on your own though, whether or not you've found its nest."

* * *

Blackthorne's grin widened. "Great to have ya," she welcomed, holding out her hand for a shake. "Ma names Blackthorne."

Not trusting the woman to simply take the money and leave, she grunted her suspicions to Arjorn, who merely huffed in reply. He was a light sleeper for a bear anyway. "Arjorn here will be keepin an eye on ya ta make sure ya don't run off nowhere," she informed. "Til then, drink up! We leave in the mornin'."

* * *

Nanara had no intentions of simply running off and leaving.

Maybe it was because she hoped to dissuade Blackthorne from her path pursuing the menace that was the Black Wings. Maybe she hoped the woman really would put an end to the creature. It was hard to say.

She was still there in the morning, bright and early, and ready to lead the way. It was going to be quite the walk, and she wasn't so sure she was looking forward to it.

As self-assured as Blackthorne was of success, she was not. They had been fortunate to survive the first encounter, but a second one? Chances of living to see tomorrow, at least for them, were low.

She silently begged the protection of the Old Gods, even knowing they probably would not answer her.

"I've never seen someone ride a bear before," Nanara commented, hoping to pass the time more merrily as they walked. If they lacked any luck at all, it wouldn't last the entire trip there before the beast in question came upon them. "There must be a story behind this."

* * *

Had it been any other morning Blackthorne might have ignored the question entirely; it wasn't any stranger's business, but today was a good day. They had lucked out on finding a guide to the beast's lair, the weather was good, and - despite the nagging pain in her arm and leg - she was invigorated. It wasn't every day, either, that one got to slay a creature of 'legend'.

"I found 'im on me way here from Cyrodiil," Blackthorne recalled. " 'e was one of them 'legends' people like to spread so often, cause of his size." A look of disgust twitched on her face as she continued. "People kept tryna trap him or kill him. I tracked 'im to his cave one day, saw he was full of arrows."

She absently rubbed at his shoulder, small, barely noticeable bare spots could be seen under his fur.

" 'course," she continued with a smile of remembrance, " 'e was angry. Said he was tired of people always takin' his things away. His woods, his prey,-" she paused, looking down at the bear with sadness. "-his mate an' cubs, and now they was tryna take 'im, too. Said he was gonna take take away the people's things, make them sad too. He'd been attackin' loggin' camps, caravans, guards, pretty much anything that walked on two legs and got near his woods for five years. Ye should ask of The God Bear sometime when in town.."

She snickered.

"They claim he's still there, just sleeping underground until the war wake him, or the end of the world comes… the endings of the legend vary but you get it." She grew silent. "Perhaps the Buzzard is the same." A look of what have been pity crossed her face for a brief second, then disappeared with a grin.

"Anyway, I talked 'im inta lettin' me treat 'is wounds, then I stayed with him overnight to make sure they healed proper. Some blagards with mutt came, tryna kill 'im for some fame and I took care of them." She hugged the bears neck, huffing at him in affection before finishing up her story. "I insisted this dosser come with me. Told 'em no one could take his 'ome if it was always with 'im."

She had meant to somehow iterate that she had been talking of the whole world being his home, but she left it. It wasn't all that important of a clarification and it was harder to translate such a thing properly outside of animal-speak.

* * *

"I see…" Nanara hummed, watching the bear thoughtfully. It was an interesting tale. So even the people in Cyrodiil had legends like that.

She frowned. _Perhaps the Buzzard is the same_.

"The Black Wings is nothing like your bear. We've had talk of it for a decade now at least, at least as it is now… but it began further back then that. You've probably heard of the Markarth Incident before, from more than twenty years ago. The native people of the Reach - the Forsworn, as you call them - took the city of Markarth back for themselves during the Great War. We held it and governed ourselves for two full years and were on the brink of being recognized as an independent people the same as the other ten races, and then Ulfric Stormcloak led a siege on the city and stole it from us."

She pursed her lips, looking ahead at the road, in the direction of Markarth that was only a short ways west of them. They would be taking the road bypassing it though, heading north.

"The people of the Reach say that the Nords cursed us twice then. First with the theft of Markarth, and then again by planting a seed that would destroy our people from within… a monster with half of our blood and half of our Nord enemies, that mocked the form of our revered Hagraven matriarchs with its own inhuman qualities. They tried to destroy it, over and over. They did everything possible to see it erased from Nirn, but no matter what they did, the monster remained, and it grew more and more a threat every day, until they couldn't keep it contained any longer, and it began to hunt."

She laughed softly.

"I suppose we grew too good at hiding. When we became scarce, it began to target people who were not Forsworn. I guess that was the only way to satisfy its bloodlust when it couldn't find us. I fear though that it will only hunt more veraciously the longer its left alone and the scarcer we become." Pausing, she added tentatively, "Its not too late now to abandon this quest. Its unlikely this will end the way you want it to."

* * *

Blackthorne's grin faded, replaced by a cold harshness as she nudged Arjorn to move ahead of the woman. She had lost her interest as soon as she'd mentioned mixed blood being a 'curse'. She didn't even seem to pick up that the woman had stated - if vaguely - the bird had once been human.

She waited until Nanara had finished talking, only catching bits and pieces, her disgust only growing. She had never thought much of the Foresworn, what they did was their business, but this hit a personal nerve with the elf. Had Nanara not been their only hope of finding the bird, Blackthorne would have likely beat her, but as it was, they needed her.

"Is it a 'curse' ya want gone, or one ye want to keep?" Blackthorne spat venomously. "If it's one ya want ta keep, don't throw it on others and deal with it yourselves." She stopped, looking the woman in the face, eyes like daggers.

* * *

Nanara narrowed her eyes.

" _Don't throw it on others_? Did I not tell you already to turn away from doing this? Was it not your own insistence that we chase the beast to its nest? Wasn't it you who bragged just yesterday of how you would so gloriously slay it by your own hand?" she shot back. "I only tell you what our people speak of. I don't know much beyond what I've heard and seeing the creature itself, and to see it means its out for blood and murder. You're here on land not your own hunting life for coin. What right do you have to lecture?"

If she so wanted, she could easily end guiding the other girl right then and there. She owed the redhead nothing, and the coin wasn't worth dying over. She had half a mind to already. Hunting the Black Wings would make no difference, just as nothing else had ever since it first began.

She wasn't entirely sure what she thought of the bird. She heard of its background, but wasn't there herself, as she would have been a child the same time as the creature was. She saw it attack and kill people, and _was_ there to see those things happen for sure. Perhaps it was a tragic creature, but it also killed both discriminately and indiscriminately, and Blackthorne certainly held no claim to standing on higher moral ground.

* * *

Blackthorne tossed the folded bounty paper at the Foresworn woman.

"Yer tribe hid from it, and your 'curse' became everyone else's. I was brought here ta fix the mistakes! The beast's half dead and you still wanna run from it. I lost good men fighting that damned thing, what have yew and yer tribe done?"

She didn't even care if the woman left by this point. She'd be happy letting the damned buzzard peck away their numbers by this point, even if it did involve others.

Behind her, the mercenaries were lost for words. They just came this far for the paycheck, and now it wasn't even sure they would be seeing it, and for what? What had set off their leader so much?

* * *

"They tried to deal with it," Nanara stated, firmly keeping her temper in check, as much as it wanted to flare. It wasn't worth getting any deeper into a conflict. She didn't know what had set the small woman off, but it wasn't important. "And this was the result. It can't be killed, but you can, and that's why you'll fail."

Deciding she was done with the discussion, she walked ahead. She'd show them where it was, but that was all. Her people had already learned the hard way how futile trying to _"solve the problem"_ was. But if Blackthorne was so stubborn as to try her luck anyway? Fine. It was her funeral.

She walked at a fast pace, not really caring if she left anyone behind but figuring she probably wouldn't outpace the bear no matter how fast she went. The road carried on for a while, before she finally broke away from it and headed through the woodlands, around the foot of a small mountain until reaching the ruins that proceeded the bird's nest.

After traversing a tunnel system, they came upon a snowy niche of old Nordic ruins and a river that ran through it, partially natural and partially man-made.

"This is the place."

The giant bird was nowhere in sight, but they were far from alone.

At first they couldn't be seen, frost sticking to black feathers and camouflaging them against dark grey stone blanketed in snow, but there were crows _everywhere_. They were heard first and spotted second, raising their voices in a cacophony of warning.

 _Intruders!_

 _Intruders!_

 _Bad!_

 _Unwelcome!_

 _Go away! Go away!_

 _Threats!_

 _Intruders!_

 _Leave!_

 _Attack-warning!_

 _Go away! Go away! Go away!_

* * *

Blackthorne didn't think she'd _ever_ heard quite as many birds as she _was_ hearing now _._ The screaming, for lack of a better word, was deafening, leaving a shrill ring in her ears that would likely last hours after the birds would silence.

Arjorn's ears fell back against his head, an annoyed huff exiting him in the form of a vapor cloud. He had never been one to care one way or another about birds, especially 'shadow birds' as they often times led him to food. He only cared when they stole his scraps, or when they made a lot of noise, as they were now.

 _Quiet. Not after small shadows. Stupid. Quiet._

The birds either didn't hear the bear, or didn't care, either way their calls continued. Blackthorne half expected the Blackwings to answer the birds, though knew it likely couldn't.

She wondered idly to herself if it was even still alive. She didn't know the full extent of its injuries. For all she knew, it could have crushed a few organs as well as bones. There was also the possibility of the woman being right and the bird _had_ healed, as unlikely as that seemed. She put a hand to an axe at her side, her eyes scanning the skies and ground alike so as not to be caught unaware.

* * *

The crows continued to make a raucous, completely ruining any chance of sneaking up on the bird, wherever it was, and it seemed just as likely that it was sitting amongst the flock, blended in with smaller birds and the rocks, waiting to see if they would proceed or not.

Of course, Nanara had known all of this already. The crows all flocked around it, acting as its eyes and ears, telling it where to find prey and especially the Reachmen. If it wasn't there one moment, it would be once 'word' traveled between the birds.

"If you still want to do this, you'll be doing it on your own," she informed Blackthorne, inching back towards the tunnel they'd come in from. "Don't say I haven't warned you."


	5. Chapter 5

**Hunters and Hunted  
A Skyrim Fanfiction  
Original RP with higekihigure  
**

* * *

Faulklin shuddered, the convulsion rippling upwards through his chest and ending at his throat. The wounds were bad, but he already knew that. He'd tasted blood on the unsteady flight back, and this time the blood was his own, hot and vile, flowing from organs where it shouldn't.

Still, internal bleeding was not the worst of his problems. One of his legs was shattered, but the pain was startlingly dull. His flames could seal the flesh tears easily enough, though it was a little harder to properly focus them on wounds he couldn't see. Broken bones, however, were a much more difficult and time-consuming fix, and the falling rocks had damaged if not outright broken his lower spine.

He'd at least been able to reach his room, a cylindrical chamber with a circular pit in the middle, filled with dry hay, animal pelts, and black feathers of both regular and irregular size.

He cracked a single eye open as he heard the rise of many voices, the crows sending out an alarm that there were enemies in his isolated hideout. Was it that same damn bear-rider and her pet? He couldn't be certain, but how would she have found his hiding place so soon? It could have merely been coincidence. Some random adventurer who saw a chance in "unguarded" ruins, as did happen every so often.

He whimpered faintly as he tried to move and at the thought of another fight. He could hardly stand on the one leg that hadn't been crushed, and the pain was only going to get worse as the damage to his lower back mended.

Maybe - if it wasn't the woman, who _surely_ would have lost her nerve by now - he could scare whoever the intruders were away with his bestial form alone. Sometimes that was enough to send anyone running, especially if they'd heard of his reputation in the area.

He shifted back into that form, trying to make himself comfortable as he did so, but it was difficult with how his body ached. Even so, whoever came was going to get a nasty surprise when they stumbled in and he was ready for them, and the narrow halls would make a proper fight difficult for a bear if it was indeed the little redhead.

* * *

Blackthorne let the woman leave, only stopping her to ask if there were any _other_ things they should worry about in the ruins, like traps or puzzles, or even Hagravens. It was unlikely the bird got along with the hideous hags, having such a hatred for the Forsworn and all, but it was a possibility Blackthorne couldn't overlook. Once she had received her answers she let the woman go on her way. She had done her end of the bargain.

The group continued into the ruins, passing shredded tents and finding, what they had originally thought was rocks the crows were perched on, were in fact corpses and skeletons. Their withered, empty skulls seemed to scream with the crows in warning, though more to them than the creature that had killed them.

When they reached a door that led further in, Blackthorne dismounted Arjorn with a pained grunt. The potion had lasted her up until dawn, but the dull ache had been steadily turning into a throbbing pain that flared whenever she shifted her weight to her right leg or moved too drastically with her right arm. She didn't think she'd broken anything, though it was a good guess something either dislocated or fractured from the rough landing. She did her best not to show her pain, sweating with the effort as she pushed open the door and led them further into the ruins.

Had Arjorn had his armor, he likely wouldn't have fit down some of the smaller hallways, and as they neared a dimly lit hallway, it became even more apparent he would have to bring up the rear. Blackthorne wondered how the large corvid had even managed some of these halls, but concluded birds were much thinner than bears. On the bright side, Arjorn might not be able to maneuver the hall well, but neither would the bird, or that was her belief as she limped.

By the time they reached a warm hall smelling strongly of bird, the pain in Blackthorne's leg was splintering and she had to lean against the cool walls for support. The mercenaries looked at her with concern, but said nothing, not wanting to alert the bird they were already so close.

Blackthorne took a deep breath to steady herself, both from the pain and to face the bird that most likely lay just ahead and around the corner. She drew her axes, gripping them tight despite the pain as they neared the corner and prepared for confrontation.

* * *

He heard them coming, first from the door that opened at the bottom of the ruin, letting the wind and voices of screeching crows filter in from the opposite side of the place as well, then from what subtle sounds and movement he could hear.

There was a steady but heavy _Thmp, thmp_ and click of claws on stone, as well as the huffing of a scenting animal. Definitely a bear. So they really had tracked him all the way here. He wondered how, but it wasn't important.

If he didn't already know every creak and groan of these walls and the wind outside, he might have not noticed their presence through the smallest creak of wood or brush against stone, even as the bear went quieter as well.

He could tell, though, especially knowing they were coming thanks to the other birds, and he shifted his position, bracing his still-good leg against the wall of his circular nest pit. It went almost too quiet, and he figured they were near, maybe around the corner of the door.

He waited, wondering if he should pounce now or wait. He could catch them unaware from around the corner, but if their reflexes were good, he'd miss his element of surprise. Besides, while it was difficult for a bear to navigate the narrow corridors, the same could be said for him. His advantage would be in the room itself.

Better to wait.

So he did, only cracking his single eye open a sliver as he watched the doorway, waiting for them to round the corner and enter. This was _his_ home. He knew every crevice better than they did, and he'd use that to his advantage.

Then he saw her, rounding the corner with weapons in-hand, _definitely_ the bear-riding elf. From the way she moved and her expression, she was wounded too, and not lightly so. Good. Then this would be easy.

As soon as she was just a step too far inside to make it through the doorway faster than he could, he rose up and lunged, pushing off the wall of the shallow pit and straight for her, screeching in fury and flames.

* * *

Blackthorne cursed as the bird caught flame. She had expected it to be aggressive, for sure, if not dead, but to light itself a flame in such a small room, full of hay and feathers? She supposed it took a bird to do something bird-brained, but didn't really have time to ponder the do's and don'ts of fighting-flaming-birds-in-a-cave etiquette as it dove at her.

She thought of retreating through the door, back around the corner, but figured she wouldn't make it. She rolled to the side, putting most of her weight on the left, but hissing as her right leg landed. Se wouldn't let this stop her though, she stumbled to her feet and lunge at the bird from the side, hoping to hack into its vulnerable legs.

The mercenaries that had been behind her fell in to attack the bird as soon as his momentum had ended, blades raised, and further behind them loomed the bear, waiting for his chance to enter the room.

* * *

Faulklin missed, but that was fine enough. She was in the larger room rather than the narrow hall, and that was where he was going to gain the advantage.

The one injured leg buckled as he landed, crashing him partway to the floor rather than into the wall. The girl rushed at his side in that same moment, and he flicked his wing out to knock her away.

The other mercenaries were charging at him now, and he backwinged, pushing off the ground and gaining a few feet of distance. One of them swung a weapon that grazed his chest, slicing feathers and flesh, but it was shallow. The moment their swing failed to do proper damage, he lunged forward, grabbing them and pulling them off their feet.

There wasn't a lot of room even in the chamber, but that was to his advantage in this case just as much as it wasn't. He tossed the mercenary up and let them fall, grabbing their leg while they were stunned and flicked them up and then down, bashing them against the ceiling, then the floor, then the ceiling again.

When another charged at him, he simply used the first mercenary to bash the second and send them both flying into the pile of hay that had caught light and was quickly growing into a full inferno.

Now, he turned his attention back to the redhead, harmlessly moving through the flames and closing in on her, glaring with a single blue scarred eye.

* * *

To say Blackthorne was okay would be an overstatement. Her leg had buckled in splintering agony just as the creature had flung out its wing and caught her in the chest, knocking her into the wall and leaving a searing tear in her armor. The heat was intense, even if it hadn't caught flame, and threatened to leave her breathless as she fought to regain composure between all the pain.

There was a haze beginning to fill the room as dry tinder greedily took light and she could hear her men yelling, fighting, maybe even losing.

She used the wall as a brace and pulled herself to her feet, all too slowly for her liking. In front of her the bird had turned its fury on her, its blue eye piercing her own green ones as she stared back.

She hadn't really had a chance to see the bird's face clearly until now. The first time she had seen it, it had been foggy, and - although it was a bit hazey now - it was also far too close for her comfort.

The bird only had one eye, a deep, piercing blue that sent a shudder down her spine; not entirely from fear, but because of what lay _within_ it. There was a malice and pain she had never before seen in any living thing, and there was something vaguely familiar about the scarring… something that pissed her off.

What was it…?

She became partially focused on trying to remember what it was, her head swimming as foul smoke and pain overwhelmed her.

There was a brief flash of memory, of humiliation, of failure, of _losing;_ back some months ago when she had been guarding a rich Altmer in a meadery.

" _You!"_ She rasped with bemused recognition "It can't be…."

It couldn't be the assassin from that night. He had been a man, not a bird. People couldn't just turn into bird… could they?

She tilted her head at the bird in question. She couldn't be sure if the bird even spoke common and she couldn't quite croak out the right sounds in her current state, but what she could would have to work.

 _Know you?_

From the doorway, Arjorn was barreling in, focused on taking out the bird's injured leg.

* * *

For a flicker, Faulklin noticed the distant recognition that bloomed in the woman's eyes, not quite having figuring out that the assassin and bird were one and the same creature, but her memory was steadily piecing things together she had no doubt failed to notice before.

It didn't matter though. The knowledge wouldn't escape with her. She was going to perish here.

 _Die!_

He rose up, bristling feathers and flame as she began to truly realize _who_ the Black Wings was, ready to lunge, but the bear charged in then, heedless and unafraid of the flames as most animals were. He tried to move away, to gain as much air as he could, but the chamber was too short and the bear too fast, biting onto the broken leg.

He screamed in pain and rage, fluttering wings to pull away from it or gain the advantage. It had attacked his injured leg, but he still had the other, clamping his long talons around its flank and belly, arching to grab hold of its scruff and locking them both into a roll across the ground and flaming hay, though for Faulklin, it was entirely done on purpose.

His body was immune to flame - more than that, it healed him. Unless his enemy had some sort of rare mysticism he wasn't aware of, the bear's was not.

* * *

That was all the confirmation Blackthorne needed, though she still held her doubts as the fire from months ago rekindled in her veins. She would not lose to that Shite again.

Arjorn was no more fireproof than most other creatures, but he was a stubborn bear and his skin was thick. The flames licked and bit at him, like arrows and swords had done long ago and his rage peaked. He swatted madly at the bird, biting all the more harder as they tussled and tumbled among the burning hay. If he let go, they would die.

One of the remaining mercenaries attempted to join the bear in the tussle, aiming to jam his sword into the birds ankle as soon as an opening occurred.

Blackthorne was also looking for an opening, but not for melee range, and as soon as it presented itself she hurled her axes at the giant birds back, hoping to lodge at least one in its spine, neck, or just land a hit at all. If that failed he would just find another way.

* * *

He tightened his talons on the bear, broke hide with their sharp tips, but it wasn't without the cost of his other leg. If this kept up, he wasn't sure it would _ever_ be able to fully heal the damage.

Biting its scruff did little either to hurt the beast or pull it off of his leg, so he switched focus to its side. He already had his talons in it.

If he could rip far enough into its flank, he could kill it that way. The huge animal was the only thing standing between him and the humans that insisted on hunting him so adamantly.

He lunged with his beak at its flank, tearing with that and his one good leg. An axe imbedded in his back and lower shoulder, and he screeched at the bite of the blade, before plunging his beak at its ribs again.

If they wanted a fight to the death, as it was quickly looking to become, he'd give it to them.

* * *

Arjorn roared in pain past the mouthful of bird. His blood was on fire, his fur was on fire, and he could feel skin peeling from his side with painful jabs. He mauled at the bird's flaming underside, not caring for the flames, he just wanted to pain to stop now, and the only way that would happen was to kill the bird or die trying. He figured it would kill him if he stopped anyway.

Blackthorne _tch'_ ed as the bird continued flailing and hurting her companion. This wasn't going to work. She snatched up one of the swords the dead mercenary had carried and followed the mercenary in finding an opening to jam it into the bird. Her eyes burned from the embers, her lungs burned with the smoke and ash, but she would not be deterred.

The mercenary in heavier armor attempted to lodge his weapon into the birds spine, feeling much like a hare on a spit as flames licked at his plate armor.

Blackthorne on the other hand was attempting to jam her own weapon into the bird's ankle. If she could lodge it in, she would twist it until the bird released her bear companion, the foot popped off, or the damned thing bit her in half.

 _Of course_ there was always that small shred of doubt nagging in the back of her mind that this was simply a lost cause, that they should retreat, but she doubted the bird would allow such a thing now; her pride certainly wouldn't.

It was _all_ or _nothing._

* * *

Sharp claws raked his underside and by then everything seemed just a blur of blind fury, bear trying to rip bird apart and vica versa, and chances are he would have won in the long-run if not for the remaining two mercenaries.

He turned his attention on the one climbing his back, knowing he couldn't simply let them climb and attack as they pleased, and snapped his beak at them while his talons still dug into the bear.

That was, until a blade pierced through his ankle, severing ligaments and causing excruciating agony. In the moment he was distracted by that, the other on his back ran a sword through from above, missing his spine but only barely.

The bear wasn't holding his injured leg anymore, so he kicked off and rammed the remaining mercenary against the ceiling, the sword in his back running deeper.

He fluttered across the room towards the opposite side, though this time as he landed, _both_ legs buckled and he collapsed fully. The blade in his ankle shifted agonizingly with every movement, and he twisted around to dislodge it, which turned out to be no easy task.

It didn't make standing any easier, pain like lightning bolts traveling up his whole body when he tried to get up, and instead he ended up collapsing again.

As if the pain of his shattered leg and spine weren't bad enough before, now he couldn't even rise. He could taste blood again, and both feathers and ground were streaked in red from where the bear's claws got him.

* * *

There were distinct popping noises as Blackthorne twisted the blade deeper, only stopping once she had been satisfied the bird had been crippled and had released her companion.

Arjorn fell to the floor, huffing in shudders as his fur smoldered and he bled openly from a gaping wound in his side. Blackthorne hobbled to the bear's side, leaving the bird to flail and possibly tire itself as it attempted to dislodge the blade in its back. All Blackthorne had eyes for now was the pieces of meat hanging from her companion in strips from his side.

 _Hurt… Fire. Hurt… Pain… Pain… Scared… Need you._

Blackthorne held the bear's head briefly, worry filling her as he shivered and groaned. She did her best to put out the flames on and around him with her fur cloak, but it did little to stop the inferno that was raging around them.

 _Here. Protect. Safe_ . _Together strong._ _Kill shadow bird_. Blackthorne reassured the bear briefly before turning back to the flailing 'buzzard'. She wanted to finish this, she wouldn't fail. The bird would pay for what it did to her, her men, her companion, it would pay for everything with its life.

The soldier that had been on the creatures back fell to the ground with a grunt, hands and legs scrunched close to the body where the fire had done its damage; melting through bits of the armor to meld flesh and metal together in a disgusting, bubbling mess. The mercenary would likely live from those injuries alone, but they likely wouldn't want to.

"Ya did good," Blackthorne commended them, and he smiled, hissing as they did so, any words they might have said were lost on the redhead as she focused solely on the bird, emotions dulled, attention focused on simply finishing it at this point as she picked up the blade the bird had dislodged from its ankle and approached the Blackwings.

* * *

The bird shuddered against the wall that one side was pressed against, single eye watching the bear and mer, breathing through pain that wracked his whole body by this point. If he were the more sentimental type, the shows of worry and caring between the bosmer and ursa might have moved him somewhat, but there were too many other things filling him to sympathize with enemies.

He wriggled, using his wings as much if not more as supports for the moment as he did his legs, one which refused to hold his weight entirely and the other sent sharp spikes of pain up his body like the thrust of more swords.

He couldn't really support his weight from under him, but he braced against the wall at an awkward angle, one clawed foot against vertical stone and one wing higher still, facing his approaching enemy, his hunter, head on, blood dripping from his belly and his jaws, some of it his own and some not. The flames that had consumed the room were dying into mere wisps and embers, casting the chamber into ominous half-light.

Still, the eye and posture of the Black Wings spoke clearly of everything it was and felt.

 _Agony. Hatred. Bloodlust. Fear. Fury. Exhaustion. Despondent. Anguished. Arrogant. Hurt. Mocking. Scared. Callous. Confident. Resigned. Stubborn. Weary._

Raw emotion from a creature that saw the whole world as an enemy, and yet saw the hunters before it as little threat at the same time. He couldn't die; they could. He would survive; they wouldn't. He would win; they would lose. Nothing in his being doubted victory, but there was little pride in it, only blatant and defeated acceptance that this was how its existence was meant to be; a hunter and ender of life, one that kills just to kill, and is hunted in return.

So he rose up, and he lunged from where he'd braced himself against the wall, seeking an end to their lives as well.

* * *

Blackthorne felt pity for the beast, but little for the assassin beneath the feathery guise. He was, after all, an assassin, and there was a special sort of irony that came with taking others lives until, one day, inevitably, someone claimed your own. If anything, the creature could find solace in death.

The corvid lunged at her, and she let her legs give out, dipping underneath the bird and ramming the sword upwards, hoping to pierce the birds heart, crooning as she did so.

 _Rest._


	6. Chapter 6

**Hunters and Hunted  
A Skyrim Fanfiction  
Original RP with higekihigure  
**

* * *

Too late did he realize he was leaping right on top of a sword point, and the blade pierced his chest and ran through his heart. He screamed anguish at the intrusion of cold metal and thrashed, swiping claws at the small elf and flicking his wings to escape impalement.

He fell to the side of the room and writhed, trying and failing to reach the imbedded blade, huffing and keening. He could remove it easily if he reverted, but he didn't think she'd hesitate to more easily take off his head, which would be even worse. Instead, he lay down in defeat, breathing ragged and faltering, but still ongoing.

If he could die, he would. He would have given up everything else just for that, but living beyond the will to, beyond wounds that would have taken others in an instant and relieved their pain was his curse, and he could do nothing about it. He would have let her cut him down much sooner if death was his to have, but now, regardless, that fight was over. He was too battered and beaten.

* * *

The talons battered Blackthorne away, ripping holes in her thick leather armors as they sent her rolling across the charred floor, a yell of pain escaping her as something in her arm popped back into place and the pain in her upper leg flared.

She rose unsteadily, hissing and groaning between clenched teeth as she got to her feet. She leaned into the wall for support, keeping as much weight as she could off her injured leg.

She watched with remorse as the bird flailed. she had hoped to pierce its heart and end its misery, but she supposed she had missed. It couldn't be helped now, her body ached and she was too weak to give it another shot. She attempted to make the sound birds make to soothe one another, but initiated a coughing fit from the lingering smoke and ash in the air. Regrettable, but it would soon be dead anyway, or so she hoped.

She found the strength to hobble over to Arjorn, who was also stumbling to his feet - he had always been a fighter - and leaned into him, putting her good arm around his neck and snorting out a brief _Together._ before looking toward the mercenary laying stiffly not far away.

"Ya still alive?" she croaked to the soldier in question. She received a pained 'Aye', the man raising his arm in indication he was still mobile too... well, his arm was, anyway. With Arjorn's help, the two scuffled over to the mercenary.

Their burns were most severe on the chest, arms and lower waist, it was unlikely they would be walking anytime soon. They both regarded this fact with resigned acceptance.

With some effort, Blackthorne unsheathed the dagger in her boot, "Ya want me ta-"

"Nah, just…give it here," they winced, holding up their 'good' arm.

Blackthorne dropped the blade into the soldier's palm and stumbled out the door behind Arjorn, a fog settling over her mind. They managed to make it to the small dining area before collapsing with exhaustion.

 _Rest._ Arjorn snorted faintly, causing the small elf to panic a moment as he fell to his side completely un-respondent, but he was still breathing. They could rest here for a short while, and when they felt up to it, she would check to make sure her nemesis was dead, then they would leave.

Blackthorne's mind was a haze, devoid of a complete string of thought as she inspected the messily, lightly cauterized tears in her companions ribs. The flames that had threatened to eat him alive had likely saved his life.

She covered the nasty tears with the tattered remains of her short fur cloak, dizziness overcoming her as she slumped against her friend and into a darkness without dreams.

* * *

He stilled and waited for them to either leave or drop dead from their wounds, since it didn't seem like they were closing in for further blows, probably thinking him already done for, though normally they would be right to think so.

He heard them talk as if victory was won and him dead, but he'd let them think that for now. He certainly wouldn't be fighting any battles any time soon, but he was far from dead.

The steps of both the bear and woman receded, and soon enough, the sounds of the other person's life ending did as well. He waited for a while longer, to assure they were not coming back, before letting his form change, feathers receding and body leaving an avian state to return to looking more human.

It hurt to move, even a small amount, but he had to. He grasped the sword in his chest and gasped around the pain as he slowly inched it out. Once it was gone, he bled profusely, and all of the strength left him. All he could do was lay there and focus the tiniest flame on his wounds, trying to seal them starting at his heart and working outward.

It took hours to do just that, and he was by no means any stronger than before for it, the damage and blood loss still having done its work, and his ribs would take longer still to set back into place properly.

Removing the sword through his back was even harder, given the angle, and again, the free-bleeding wounds took what strength he had to properly deal with them. It took less time than the sword through his heart, but not by much.

His leg was still shattered and his spine damaged, but those would take weeks to heal, and they might have been damaged beyond his abilities to see them set right again.

At the very least, his other ankle where the bitch had lodged her sword would only take several days, and he might still be able to fly back to the sanctuary given a few days, though he loathed to face either Nazir or Babette and admit how badly he'd been roughed up. Letting others see his weakness was not a common theme, even if he trusted the two at least not to hurt him further.

For now though, he was too drained, curling into his cloak and letting his consciousness drift. Maybe he would return to the Sanctuary later, but for now, he needed to simply rest and let his flames do their work on his injuries.

* * *

Blackthorne awoke with a soft groan, stretching out painful, stiff limbs as she staggered to her feet. Arjorn was still sleeping, and he likely would be for awhile. Bears tended to sleep long periods of time even when they _weren't_ exhausted and wounded.

She gave her resting friend a pat on the head, frowning at the stiff, rough hairs that had been singed. His condition was her fault. She had never promised safety to any of her men, but she had promised it to him. She had promised him a home, a place where he wouldn't have to hurt anymore. That's why she had given him his armor in the first place. She knew what she did for a living was dangerous, but she could keep him safe so long a he wore that armor.

She had thought they could easily kill Black Wings. She didn't expect it to get so out of hand, but it had and it was her fault.

She sighed, doing her best to swallow her negative thoughts and emotions as she made her way back to the room where their foe likely laid dead by now.

She idly wondered which form was his true one. Would he be human once she entered the room? It would certainly make dragging the corpse back to Markarth a lot easier, but, at the same time, she wondered if she'd still be able to claim the bounty with no proof the assassin was the terrifying Blackwings.

She scratched at her head as she rounded the corner. He had returned to human form. She'd just have to figure this all out as she went along. At the least, she got the assassin back for that humiliation at Goldenglow estate, and paid back double what he owed those he had slain and wounded.

She stepped past the dead mercenaries toward the surprisingly small cloaked bundle, stopping a few feet away as she heard it take a pained breath.

There was no way he was still breathing after all that.

She unbuckled her belt around her waist quietly, taking painfully slow steps toward the breathing bundle. If he began to Turn she would wrap the strip of metal and leather around his throat.

* * *

What dreams he had were predictably unpleasant and restless, agony of both mind and body plaguing him even in sleep. Something pricked at his awareness that he couldn't tell if the perceived threat was from the recesses of sleep, limited only to his nightmares, or something more real.

He started to awake, his single eye cracking open, but the haze of exhaustion didn't let go so easily, still trying to separate if he was seeing reality unfold or a mere projection of his own mind. A figure was stalking towards him, slow and careful like a predator sneaking up on prey.

Was it just his imagination, creating non-existent danger, or…?

Awareness slowly crept back in, leaving any such dream-state behind, and he finally registered that the looming presence was real and he was very much at risk of facing further suffering. Instinct kicked in, and he knew that - at the moment - his safest and deadliest form would be that of his bird form, starting to shift and lunging in the same moment as much as his body would allow.

* * *

Blackthorne leapt on the small figure, surprisingly not much bigger than herself, and began attempting to wrap the belt around his throat. It wasn't for sure it would even work, but it was better than freely allowing him to shift once more.

"Take it easy, ye buzzard. "

* * *

He screeched furiously when she leapt around and onto him, and felt the leather strap around his throat, but kept trying to shift, thinking maybe he could be faster with it or that it might break. He felt and heard the leather strain, but it didn't snap, tight enough that it was already suffocating him halfway through transformation.

He writhed and bucked, to the side trying to ram her into the wall and at the ceiling, but between the wounds he already had and the tightness of the belt, he couldn't keep it up and collapsed as his single eye started to roll into his skull, forced to reverse back to human form and gasping raggedly once he had, since it wasn't synched tight enough to choke off his slender, human neck.

* * *

Blackthorne buckled the cinch as tightly as she could without cutting off the assassins air and sat astride his back with her feet planted firmly at the crook of his elbow to prevent much movement. She had nagging questions for the surprisingly thin -Nord? She figured- and she wasn't about to let him get away or kill her.

"Just take it easy," she growled, body tense and ready for anything.

When he seemed calmer, more out of fatigue and exhaustion than anything, she continued in a more curious , softer, tone that was still tinged with anger.

"How are ye still breathin'?" She knew she had likely missed the heart, but he had suffered severe injuries beyond any living creature's capability to withstand. "Why aren't ye dead yet?"

* * *

Faulklin grunted at the weight of the bosmer on his back, his still-healing wounds panging. He was taller by a good few inches - surprisingly enough, considering he was shorter even than most girls - but she was probably still at least the same weight as him if not heavier.

His first impulse was to go for the belt on his neck, which was uncomfortably tight, not so much that he couldn't breathe but making it slightly difficult. He was definitely not going to be doing any Shifting until it was gone. Maybe that was the point.

His second impulse was to go for the ebony blade at his hip, but she kept his arms pinned. He might still be able to throw her off long enough to reach it, but it was a gamble, and he felt beyond weakened.

At her questions, he gave her a sidelong look, grinning with a mix of malice and knowing, his expression purely condescending.

"Yeah… I wonder… how am I?" he sneered, not above playing head-games even in his current position. Perhaps it wasn't the wisest choice of action, but he'd long ago grown tired of complacency in favor of rebellion.

* * *

She narrowed her eyes to a dangerous glare. She did not care for these types of games, she wanted answers, simple as that. Why did he feel the need to make it difficult?

She was struggling to keep her temper in check as it was and, though none of the anger was directly at the shifter, he would likely be a target of it. Anything to keep from thinking this had been a waste.

She felt herself tightening the belt at his throat as she repeated her question. "How are you still alive?" Had he used some stronger healing potion? Did such a strong potion even exist?

She briefly gazed in front of them, searching for a discarded vial, but found none.

 _How?_

* * *

He winced at the tight pinch of the belt, teeth clenching. He had more or less known that she'd probably do that. Mercy was not a common theme across any of the races, be them recognized or otherwise.

"That's the million-coin question everyone wants to know, isn't it?" he managed to rasp through constricting airways, barely more than a breathless wheeze. "Even when the answer is right in front of you… that some things in this world just won't die. The answer doesn't really matter then, does it? Not when nothing can be done about it…"

* * *

She almost said that wasn't possible, but if there was any proof to be had it was already laying before her. He had survived what no others could have… and it was just as likely he didn't know any more than she did on that matter.

She was hesitant to think the Foresworn woman had been right.

The belt loosened, but remained around his throat. She would not risk him turning into that bird again.

She had many questions buzzing around in her head, but decided to ask the ones her opponent could answer first. The rest were ones she would have to answer herself in time. "How do ya turn into that bird? Is it some sort of Hagraven thing?"

He looked nothing like a Hagraven, nor did she know of Hagravens having the ability to turn fully into birds, but she didn't know a whole lot of the nasty hags and their rituals to begin with.

* * *

He sucked in several harsh breaths once he was able to breathe again, watching her out of the corner of his eye, the look promising death once he was in a position to be able to. For the moment, he was at her mercy - or more likely lack thereof, as he saw it - but another time would come where that wasn't the case. He simply had to bide his time for it.

At the very least, he still had his flame healing, which Blackthorne would be unaware to. Even as they spoke, the small fires were working internally to fix the damage.

"I simply think of it, and it happens. That's all there is to it." He didn't know where the form came from or why. It was simply a part of him just as his seeming immortality was, without explanation. He'd ceased trying to make sense of it a long time ago. The Hagravens had nothing to do with it, at least as far as he knew, and to them he was all the more an abomination for it.

Still, it was a common guess, either that he was corrupted by the same magick as hagravens or some sort of offspring of one.

* * *

He seemed to know as much as Blackthorne on the matter. She figured he could be lying, but, then again, what need would he have to lie about it?

She mulled over a wave of thoughts in her head. She couldn't - no - _wouldn't_ just let him go, not after all this. She went through too much to just give up on the bounty when she had her mark where she wanted.

She debated beheading the blue-eyed shifter, idly running her thumb along the base of his neck. Surely, even for someone who considers themselves 'immortal' that would kill them.

"What do ye think would happen if I cut off yer head?" she mused aloud, though she had no intention of testing this theory.

She was many things, but she was not so monstrous as to impose undue suffering, especially onto something that could supposedly not die. She couldn't even be sure what she would do if he did live through it. How would living through such a thing even work? The more she thought on it, the more a sick, twisted desire to test it and cure this curiosity grew.

* * *

He squirmed slightly at the touch to his neck, eliciting a sound much akin to an animal growl of warning. If he could change their positions, gain the upper hand and reach his sword, that hand would be the first to go, he decided. Her sitting on his shoulders and planting her heels on his arms was one thing, but the softer, calculative caress was going beyond his threshold for discomfort.

The look he gave her wasn't so much unafraid as it was guarded, closed off from showing fear but likewise losing its cocky, defiant snark.

"That wouldn't change anything." He'd never actually had his head cut off before, but considering he could take a sword through the heart and survive, and knowing exactly how excruciating the experience was when even unconsciousness wouldn't offer relief, he wasn't willing to test decapitation as a means of death.

If he knew for certain, that may have been a different story entirely, but there were some chances he wasn't going to take on that, even if there was a small chance it would work.

All the same, he wasn't sure if he was saving or dooming himself by admitting this, but he was already thinking up ways to turn the tables, playing completely helpless for the moment until then.

* * *

Blackthorne regarded the shifter in his expression with her own guarded curiosity and calculating gaze. She couldn't be positive what had caused the shift, but ceased her rubbing, instead resting her chin on her hand as she thought.

She swept her curious, sadistic thoughts away, replacing them with new questions that needed answered, ones that held slightly more importance to her. Would her clients accept this was the Black Wings they had been so terrified of? Would she still get paid regardless? What would they do with him if they _did_ accept he was the Terror of the Reach?

For a moment she became troubled; this was starting to seem like it _had_ been a waste of couldn't afford to attempt fighting his bird form again, let alone drag it back to Markarth as proof and it was likely they wouldn't believe her at all if she just brought his human form tto them. At the least, her own, personal vendetta against the assassin had been paid back as much as it was likely to be, though,he still owed his life for all of her dead men…

There was that itch again, nagging her to decapitate the lil shite.

It would certainly pay off in the sense she wouldn't have to keep a constant eye on him, and even if her clients declined her payment, he own personal vendetta would be completely settled.

Unless he lived through it somehow…

A dangerous glint entered her eyes as she mulled over these thoughts; one mixed with deadly intent, curiosity, and uncertainty as she fingered the handle of her ax with her free hand.

* * *

Faulklin recognized the malicious glint that crossed the woman's face instantly, a look that he could identify from a mile away. Things never worked out well for him once people began to get _that_ sort of look. He'd bid his time long enough. Now he was going to have to act, before his luck could go any further south.

He had already been thinking of how to best escape being pinned under her weight and shifted his one leg that was still mostly-good, save for his ankle, and abruptly propped himself up by one knee.

Managing to get at least one arm free in the moment where she'd have to either correct her position or fall forward, he reached the handle of the ebony sword at his side and yanked it from its sheath, aiming to swing his arm back and jam it through her side with a snarl.

He'd already thought of several outcomes to this action, some to his favor and others less-so, but it was a matter of adjusting on the fly to turn the situation to his advantage.

* * *

The sudden movement threw blackthorn off balance, causing her to tighten her grip on the belt for control both over her falling position and the assassin.

She saw he glint of metal and twisted over and off the brunette's side, the momentum yanking him nearly atop her as the blade poked a small hole in the layers of leather. It was sharp, as his talons had been, and had she not rolled it likely would have punctured deep enough to wound her.

With her free hand, she grasped her own weapon, lifting it awkwardly as she lay half under his back. Any concerns he may survive decapitation would have to wait. She valued her own life over his, and, as it was, he could not be allowed to turn or possibly get loose to slice her open.

* * *

Faulklin winced as the leather belt tightened, a headache forming behind his eyes at the pressure. At the very least, now he had a little better range of motion without the redhead keeping his arms pinned, rotating the sword in his palm to hold it the opposite way.

In this position, there was both a chance of him freeing himself from the damn leather strip around his throat, and - if he had any luck - also delivering another injury if not death on the insufferable Bosmer.

Without hesitation, he thrust the sword down at his own neck, coordinated enough to miss hitting the spine but the blade cutting a significant depth into the side of flesh, blindly aiming to try and cut loose the leather belt as he did so, as well as stab the point into the wood elf beneath him that was ready to severe his head with an axe.

* * *

Blackthorne couldn't see the other's actions, but she _heard it;_ blade slicing through sinew and snicking off bone as the brunette impaled himself. The blade _tinked_ off one of the various studs and sank itself deep into her shoulder.

Blackthorne cried out in pain as her arm went numb, limp, then shattered into shards of agony. Her ax fell from her grip, falling clumsily, heavily, but harmlessly upon the assassins shoulder and face before clattering to the ground.

Her grip faltered briefly, then tightened until her knuckles turned bone white as she grit her teeth to the pain. She was determined to not let him turn.

She let out a strained chuckle "Gunna have ta chop off yer own head before ye get rid of me that way." It was likely an exaggeration, her studded belt couldn't protect her forever and she knew this.

She made an attempt to push herself up and roll the slightly bigger figure back onto his stomach, or at least off of her, her grip faltering and tightening according to each strain.

* * *

Faulklin grit his teeth, blood steadily seeping from the wound to his neck, but he felt the tug of leather. He couldn't just give up and let her suffocate or behead him. Even as he could taste the coppery, hot liquid, coughing on it, he twisted the blade to face the leather, trying to get it to cut.

It was thick and didn't want to separate easily, putting up a good deal of resistance, but he felt part of it slice, creating adjacent corners and then splitting apart with an audible _snap_.

He rolled off to the side, trying not to put any weight on his most injured leg and gasping in air at last, free to breathe.

More importantly, he was free to shift his form, feathers sprouting along his skin and a small flame coming to life on his throat, burning shut the slice from his sword to stop the bleeding.

He still wasn't at his best, but at the very least, he figured he could finish one undersized woman and her half-dead pet bear.

* * *

Blackthorne _tsked._ She hadn't been able to stop him from cutting himself loose, and, if she was being honest, there wasn't a whole lot she could do currently.

She sneered at the shifting brunette. "Revertin' to your chicken form are ye? Is one _little_ elf that much of a problem for ye?"

In a way, she was proud of this fact, that she must be that big of a pain in the ass to one of the top tiers of the Dark brotherhood to cause him to seek safety and, probably in this case, victory, in his avian form.

She scooped up her ax. She wasn't going to give up, even if it would likely doom her.

It's not as if she could flee now.

* * *

Faulklin didn't let the taunt affect him, focused only on bringing an end to her - irritating - life. He didn't care if it was unfair to fight her in this form. Generally very little about the world was fair, and he was an assassin, not a swordarm. He already dealt in "unfair" combat, taking people out from behind while they were unaware.

His ankle where she'd earlier lodged a sword was better now, enough to stand on, though the other broken leg would take a lot longer. In either case, he rose up, eyeing her with full intent to kill as flames started to dance across his feathers again.

He lurched forward, preparing to spring at her - this time he would be more mindful of leaping on top of a weapon - and screeched fury at the small elf. Just before he could pounce, a sharp whistle demanding attention broke the air and he faltered, head snapping to the doorway of the small room off to the side of them, at a woman holding a bow readied for him.

He could instantly tell that this woman so brazenly facing him was a Reach native - a Forsworn. He knew as soon as he saw her too that this must be how the elf woman had found the place he used as shelter so quickly.

His single blue eye widened and every feather bristled madly, not with fear but unfathomable hatred, thick as smoke in the air. He screamed rage and completely forgot about Blackthorne, at least for the moment, and sprang towards the other woman instead.

He completely ignored the arrow that lodged itself in his chest, another that caught his neck, one in his wing, a few more peppering his side and chest again. Ignoring them proved to be a mistake he hadn't foreseen, falling forward stiffly and short of his intended target and finding he couldn't move at all.

* * *

Blackthorne approached the paralyzed bird with caution, axe still ready should it move more than a twitch. Her gaze traveled along its body up to its beak then up to the Foresworn woman that stood in the doorway. She quickly recognized the tribal tattooed face as that of Nanara.

She grinned at the Foresworn woman in a mix of surprise and relief. "Didn't expect to see ya 'gain. Those arrows poisoned or enchanted?" she asked with a nod toward the bow.

* * *

Nanara kept her bow poised with another arrow ready in case her previous shots hadn't managed to stop the Black Wings, but the beast didn't move, even many of its flames snuffing out steadily.

She finally lowered the weapon with a slight sigh of relief, but didn't relax her hold on the draw-string entirely yet.

"Paralysis poison," she told Blackthorne. "A strong brew, too. I'd be surprised if a few good shots of this stuff didn't stop a mammoth's heartbeats. It won't kill this big guy, but I doubt he's going to be moving for a good few hours."

She took her eyes off of the large bird to eye Blackthorne, taking in her condition, though she was still keeping the corvid well within her sights.

"You look a mess, but I guess its better than what I expected to find."

* * *

Blackthorne looked away from the woman, red tinging her face beneath soot and dirt. If she was being honest, had Nanara not appeared, she likely would have died here…A probability she did not wish to confront.

She fixed her gaze on the bird, questions and thoughts still racing her mind. "What ta do with you…" she sighed aloud, scratching at her head.

She could still behead it, _should_ behead it, but she held uncertainties. If she beheaded him and he returned to his human form, there was no way she'd still get the bounty. _On the other hand_ , she had to question if she even _cared_ about the money by this point. She had gone through a lot to get this far and, at the least, he would pay back the debt he owed.

Blackthorne gripped her ax tight. She would finish it, regardless of it costing her the gold or not. She felt no hatred for the assassin, nor anger, though that could have been on part of the fatigue and pain that was beginning to seep into her muscles.

She lifted the ax. She would try to make it quick.

* * *

Faulklin knew he didn't like the expression that crossed the wood elf's race even before figuring out her intent - though it wasn't a difficult guess. He tried to force his body to move, tried to ignite fire that would burn them to ash, but neither would work.

The most he got was the faintest shiver of locked muscles that refused to move, single wide blue eye dilating fearfully, anticipating the agony that was going to accompany the oncoming swing and not in a position to do anything about it thanks to the damn paralytic.

* * *

The ax bit past blackened feathers and landed with a solid thunk into birds thick neck, its blade wiggling deep beneath the corvids flesh as Blackthorne attempted to pull the blade free for another swing. Blood spurted from the creatures wound in a torrential spray as the blade popped free.

It had only been one swing, but it had taken nearly everything the small Bosmer had left to yank her weapon free. She wouldn't be able to completely behead the buzzard, but, it was fine. She had made it deep, and from the looks of all the blood, fatal. Unless he proved to truly be immortal, he would be dead within minutes.

She stood back to catch her breath, watching and waiting for the end result.

* * *

Contained as it was with the paralyzing poison still working, he jolted when the blade bit into his throat, a low screech of pain sounding that was choked by hot liquid. Nerves flared like fire, and in a more literal sense, he tried to focus his flames, but the paralytic was still interfering so he couldn't cauterize the wound shut.

After maybe only half a minute, his chest felt fluttery and his lungs heaved best they could to expel the blood from leaking into his airways with little result. Minutes ticked by, the spray having quickly dwindled to a pulsing stream that soaked large black feathers and pooled on the stone, throatily coughing up red.

Nanara couldn't help but wince. It was a horrible sound.

"You see?" she sighed at Blackthorne. "Its as I said, the Forsworn did everything in their power to be rid of the Black Wings, but…" She trailed off. Blackthorne hadn't believed her before. It didn't need much more explanation now. "Even if you leave here now, it probably won't soon forget you, just as it hasn't forgotten my people for what they did."

* * *

Blackthorne sighed in frustration. If it continued to live, even when its flames could not heal fatal wounds, then perhaps the forsworn woman had been right…again. Frustrating, but it had been worth the shot.

She found she could feel pity for the creature, but also an irritation at the assassin within, an unfairness in being unable to exact revenge.

She wasn't going to let him go, however. Not only had she worked hard to get him to this stage, but he could easily become a threat upon her and her base if he was allowed freedom. She looked to the forsworn woman for aid.

"Got anything metal I could wrap around its neck?" She couldn't be sure if the blood loss would cause the bird to revert, but if it did or it didn't, she was determined to keep it under wraps.

* * *

Nanara nodded, reaching into one of her bags she carried on her persons and producing a long chain coiled around itself.

"Just keep in mind… whatever you do, its bound to remember it. As you should know by now, it holds grudges."

* * *

Blackthorne took the chain with a nod before patting the corvid on the beak. "It be best if ya turn back now."

She had no qualms if he wanted to make it harder on himself and remain in his bird form, but she was tired and would prefer he cooperated. She knew it would likely be a cold day in Oblivion before that happened, but she lost nothing in asking.

* * *

Faulklin side-eyed the woman, blue hue large and pupil dilated. Part of it was the poison. Part of it was the pain and the blood loss that chilled his body. Part of it was the fear.

If he changed, especially now, it would just make things that much easier for her to take off his head, or limbs, or do any number of other things to hurt him in irreparable ways. That was always how it worked.

If he could move at all properly, he would have snapped her hand clear off her wrist. As it was, the best he could do was _hough_ defiantly at her from a parted beak, spitting up blood along with the noise.

* * *

Blackthorne furrowed her brow at the large bird, a momentary look of disgust and guilt on her face as blood spattered her front. It was to be expected, however.

She sighed and Arjorn shuffled nearby.

 _Shadow bird bad. Is hungry. Bird taste good. Eat shadow bird?_

It was just like a bear to think of food upon waking, even in such conditions.

 _No. shadow bird not bird._ Although that was only half true. _Shadow bird come with._

Arjorn huffed his disagreement on both parts and nipped at the bleeding gape in the birds neck, mostly taking bloody feathers in his mouth _Taste bird._

Blackthorne swatted the bear on the nose. Huffing a threat at the grumbling beast. _Hungry, I know. Eat later or nothing at all._

The bear snorted unhappily before shuffling out of the room to scour for bread in the room he'd just come from; grumbling all the while on how much he disliked the giant bird.

Blackthorne held out one end of the chain back to Nanara and draped her end over the back of the birds neck. It was still uncertain this would revert it back to his human form, but if he refused to cooperate, all they could do was try various things. If all else failed…she supposed she could turn to Arjorns idea…but it wasn't something she cared to consider, and would avoid testing it if she could.

"You're comin' with us, one way or another." Blackthorne warned him, more than stated.

* * *

Faulklin prickled as the bear approached, aiming to take a bite, but he still couldn't move, the only option available to him being to croak in warning at the huge animal. At the very least, the woman shooed him away.

If he were anyone else, he might've been grateful, but he suspected it wasn't done out of mercy. It was just that she wanted something else. That was always what it was.

Nanara helped string the chain around the avian's neck, not missing how the beast eyed her with recognition and hate.

"I'm not completely sure how this changing thing works… but it… he? …might not be able to until the paralysis wears off. I'm not sure. Like I said, that stuff could probably stop a mammoth's heartbeat, and it'll be a few hours before it cycles out."

* * *

Blackthorne paused to consider the possibility. He hadn't succumbed to blood loss as-of-yet, and there had to be a great amount of it in his lungs by now. If he hadn't turned back from that…

She sighed, tiredly. Thankful as she was to the forsworn woman's appearance, she wasn't fond of playing waiting games, especially dangerous ones. Waiting for the poison to wear off was not a good idea. What if he only turned back at will? As soon as the poison wore off he'd be free to peck them apart.

"Got any other ideas?"

* * *

Nanara glanced over the bird.

"The wings and legs will cause the most problem when it wears off… at the very least, if we can limit mobility, it won't be able to freely attack us," she suggested off-hand.

Humming in thought, she continued to scour the room for anything else in particular they could use to their advantage, eyeing stone and wood beams which were too scorched and brittle to be of any use.

"If we had something solid to tie it to as well… almost like a pulley or something, and chain his neck in case it can move enough to try and attack us still… at least then we have a little more control of it lunging at us."

* * *

Blackthorne looked about the room finding nothing of real use until her eyes landed upon a chandelier of horns, it would fit perfectly around the avian's neck, or, as least close enough to perfectly.

"We kin use that," she pointed out, quickly pacing over to it, her brow furrowing as she soon realized, even with the table to stand upon, she was far too short to reach the rope holding the chains.

Her eye twitched in annoyance. Well, whatever, she'd just get Arjorn to boost her up; she whistled for the bear, the noise echoing through the room and sounding much louder than it should have. She covered an ear with her hand, wincing as the noise died down. From down the hall and below the bridge came an exasperated huff.

 _Food found. Hungry. Eat._

The bear had an amazing lazy streak when danger wasn't imminent, especially when he'd found food. He would still come, likely after he'd eaten his find, and even then, he was injured and would be slower than usual. Blackthorne rolled her eyes and let out a sigh.

* * *

"Maybe…" Nanara agreed speculatively.

She didn't know exactly how the transformation part worked or how freely the Black Wings would be able to change its form. Everything she knew about it was hear-say and distant glances, or on the rare occasion, barely avoiding it as it flew overhead.

Truth be told, Blackthorne might know more about it now than she did.

While Blackthorne waited for Arjorn to come padding back in from the other room, she circled around with the chain, trying her best to wrap it around the beast's wings and legs, which was no easy feat considering not only its own bear-like size, but also trying to find anything past its jungle of black feathers and slick coating of blood that soaked them.

By the time she managed to work the chain underneath the huge avian to the other side, every second of it making her uneasily tense that maybe the paralysis would wear off quicker than anticipated, she came away with her entire arm and shoulder soaked red, making a face as she tried in vain to clean it off her skin.

"…definitely going to make use of that river outside once we have this big guy here secured."

* * *

After Arjorn had made his way back to the room, finding things to chain the large bird became a matter of what they could reach or yank apart with the bears strength. Within the hour they had the bird trussed up and ready to drag out of the miserable pit they had wandered into.

Blackthorne surveyed the bonds one last time, nodding to herself as she stopped at the feet. The birds sharp talons were not something she cared to face again anytime soon and while the bonds were uncomfortably secure around the avian, there was no guarantee they would hold the human form. As an assurance, she found the heat-warped swords discarded on the floor and rammed them through the beasts ankles, crossing them in the center and notching them together with a stray link of chain.

Human form or not, the make-shift shackles would ensure he wouldn't be walking, at least not easily.


End file.
